THE  GIRL  AT  CENTRAL 


'Mark  my   words,  there's  going  to  he  trouble  at 
Mapleshade'  " 

[PAGE  47] 


THE 

GIRL  AT  CENTRAL 


BT 

GERALDINE  BONNER 

Author  of  "The  Emigrant  Trail,"  "The  Book 
of  Evelyn,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
ARTHUR    WILLIAM   BROWN 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1915 


Copyright,  1915.  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1914.  1916,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 


PRINTED  IN  TM  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

'Mark  my  words,  there's  going  to  be  trouble  at 
Mapleshade'  " Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAG* 


'Sylvia  was  in  her  riding  dress,  looking  a  picture"     32 

'A  day  later  he  was  arrested  at  Firehill  and  taken 
to  Bloomington  jail" 182 

'I   came  down  to  the  parlor  where  Babbitts  was 
waiting"        266 


2228490 


THE  GIRL  AT 
CENTRAL 


13  OOR  Sylvia  Hesketh!  Even  now,  after 
this  long  time,  I  can't  think  of  it  with- 
out a  shudder,  without  a  comeback  of  the 
horror  of  those  days  after  the  murder.  You 
remember  it — the  Hesketh  mystery?  And 
mystery  it  surely  was,  baffling,  as  it  did,  the 
police  and  the  populace  of  the  whole  state. 
For  who  could  guess  why  a  girl  like  that,  rich, 
beautiful,  without  a  care  or  an  enemy,  should 
be  done  to  death  as  she  was.  Think  of  it — 
at  five  o'clock  sitting  with  her  mother  taking 
tea  in  the  library  at  Mapleshade  and  that  same 
night  found  dead — murdered — by  the  side  of 
a  lonesome  country  road,  a  hundred  and  eigh- 
teen miles  away. 

1 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

It's  the  story  of  this  that  I'm  going  to  tell 
here,  and  as  you'll  get  a  good  deal  of  me  be- 
fore I'm  through,  I'd  better,  right  now  at  the 
start,  introduce  myself. 

I'm  Molly  Morganthau,  day  operator  in  the 
telephone  exchange  at  Longwood,  New  Jer- 
sey, twenty-three  years  old,  dark,  slim,  and 
as  for  my  looks — well,  put  them  down  as 
"medium"  and  let  it  go  at  that.  My  name's 
Morganthau  because  my  father  was  a  Polish 
Jew — a  piece  worker  on  pants — but  my  two 
front  names,  Mary  McKenna,  are  after  my 
mother,  who  was  from  County  Galway,  Ire- 
land. I  was  raised  in  an  East  Side  tenement, 
but  I  went  steady  to  the  Grammar  school 
and  through  the  High  and  I'm  not  throwing 
bouquets  at  myself  when  I  say  I  made  a  good 
record.  That's  how  I  come  to  be  nervy  enough 
to  write  this  story — but  you'll  see  for  your- 
self. Only  just  keep  in  mind  that  I'm  more 
at  home  in  front  of  a  switchboard  than  at  a 
desk. 

I've  supported  myself  since  I  was  sixteen, 
2 


THE  GIRL  AT  CENTRAL 

my  father  dying  then,  and  my  mother — God 
rest  her  blessed  memory! — two  years  later. 
First  I  was  in  a  department  store  and  then 
in  the  Telephone  Company.  I  haven't  a  re- 
lation in  the  country  and  if  I  had  I  wouldn't 


have  asked  a  nickel  off  them.  I'm  that  kind, 
independent  and — but  that's  enough  about  me. 
Now  for  you  to  rightly  get  what  I'm  going 
to  tell  I'll  have  to  begin  with  a  description 
of  Longwood  village  and  the  country  round 
about.  I've  made  a  sort  of  diagram — it  isn't 
drawn  to  scale  but  it  gives  the  general  effect, 

8 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

all  right — and  with  that  and  what  I'll  describe 
you  can  get  an  idea  of  the  lay  of  the  land, 
which  you  have  to  have  to  understand  things. 
Longwood's  in  New  Jersey,  a  real  pictur- 
esque village  of  a  thousand  inhabitants.  It's 
a  little  over  an  hour  from  New  York  by  the 
main  line  and  here  and  there  round  it  are 
country  places,  mostly  fine  ones  owned  by 
rich  people.  There  are  some  farms  too,  and 
along  the  railway  and  the  turnpike  are  other 
villages.  My  exchange  is  the  central  office 
for  a  good  radius  of  country,  taking  in  Aza- 
lea, twenty-five  miles  above  us  on  the  main 
line,  and  running  its  wires  out  in  a  big  cir- 
cle to  the  scattered  houses  and  the  crossroad 
settlements.  It's  on  Main  Street,  opposite 
the  station,  and  from  my  chair  at  the  switch- 
board I  can  see  the  platform  and  the  trains 
as  they  come  down  from  Cherry  Junction  or 
up  from  New  York.  It's  sixty  miles  from 
Longwood  to  the  Junction  where  you  get  the 
branch  line  that  goes  off  to  the  North,  stop- 
ping at  other  stations,  mostly  for  the  farm 

4 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

people,  and  where,  when  you  get  to  Hazel- 
mere,  you  can  connect  with  an  express  for 
Philadelphia.  Also  you  can  keep  right  on 
from  the  Junction  and  get  to  Philadelphia 
that  way,  which  is  easier,  having  no  changes 
and  better  trains. 

When  I  was  first  transferred  from  New 
York — it's  over  two  years  now — I  thought 
I'd  die  of  the  lonesomeness  of  it.  At  night, 
looking  out  of  my  window — I  lived  over  Gal- 
way's  Elite  Millinery  Parlors  on  Lincoln 
Street — across  those  miles  and  miles  of  coun- 
try with  a  few  lights  dotted  here  and  there, 
I  felt  like  I  was  cast  on  a  desert  island.  After 
a  while  I  got  used  to  it  and  that  first  spring 
when  the  woods  began  to  get  a  faint  green- 
ish look  and  I'd  wake  up  and  hear  birds  twit- 
tering in  the  elms  along  the  street — hold  on! 
I'm  getting  sidetracked.  It's  going  to  be 
hard  at  first  to  keep  myself  out,  but  just  be 
patient,  I'll  do  it  better  as  I  go  along. 

The  county  turnpike  goes  through  Long- 
wood,  and  then  sweeps  away  over  the  open 

5 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

country  between  the  estates  and  the  farms  and 
now  and  then  a  village — Huntley,  Latourette, 
Corona — strung  out  along  it  like  beads  on  a 
string.  A  hundred  and  fifty  miles  off  it 
reaches  Bloomington,  a  big  town  with  hotels 
and  factories  and  a  jail.  About  twenty  miles 
before  it  gets  to  Bloomington  it  crosses  the 
branch  line  near  Cresset's  Farm.  There's  a 
little  sort  of  station  there — just  an  open  shed 
— called  Cresset's  Crossing,  built  for  the  Cres- 
set Farm  people,  who  own  a  good  deal  of  land 
in_that  vicinity.  Not  far  from  Cresset's 
Crossing,  about  a  half  mile  apart,  the  Riven 
Rock  Road  from  the  Junction  and  the  Fire- 
hill  Road  from  Jack  Reddy's  estate  run  into 
the  turnpike. 

This  is  the  place,  I  guess,  where  I'd  better 
tell  about  Jack  Reddy,  who  was  such  an  im- 
portant figure  in  the  Hesketh  mystery  and 
who — I  get  red  now  when  I  write  it — was 
such  an  important  figure  to  me. 

A  good  ways  back — about  the  time  of  the 
Revolution — the  Reddy  family  owned  most 

6 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

of  the  country  round  here.  Bit  by  bit  they 
sold  it  off  till  in  old  Mr.  Reddy's  time — Jack's 
father — all  they  had  left  was  the  Firehill 
property  and  Hochalaga  Lake,  a  big  body  of 
water,  back  in  the  hills  beyond  Huntley.  Fire- 
hill  is  an  old-fashioned,  stone  house,  built  by 
Mr.  Reddy's  grandfather.  It  got  its  name 
from  a  grove  of  maples  on  the  top  of  a  mound 
that  in  the  autumn  used  to  turn  red  and  or- 
ange and  look  like  the  hillock  was  in  a  blaze. 
The  name,  they  say,  came  from  the  Indian 
days  and  so  did  Hochalaga,  though  what  that 
stands  for  I  don't  know.  The  Reddys  had 
had  lots  of  offers  for  the  lake  but  never  would 
sell  it.  They  had  a  sort  of  little  shack  there 
and  before  Jack's  time,  when  there  were  no 
automobiles,  used  to  make  horseback  excur- 
sions to  Hochalaga  and  stay  for  a  few  days. 
After  the  old  people  died  and  Jack  came  into 
the  property  everybody  thought  he'd  sell  the 
lake — several  parties  were  after  it  for  a  sum- 
mer resort — but  he  refused  them  all,  had  the 
shack  built  over  into  an  up-to-date  bungalow, 

7 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

and  through  the  summer  would  have  guests 
down  from  town,  spending  week-ends  out 
there. 

Now  I'm  telling  everything  truthful,  for 
that's  what  I  set  out  to  do,  and  if  you  think 
I'm  a  fool  you're  welcome  to  and  no  back  talk 
from  me — but  I  was  crazy  about  Jack  Reddy. 
Not  that  he  ever  gave  me  cause ;  he's  not  that 
kind  and  neither  am  I.  And  let  me  say  right 
here  that  there's  not  a  soul  ever  knew  it,  he 
least  of  all.  I  guess  no  one  would  have  been 
more  surprised  than  the  owner  of  Firehill  if 
he'd  known  that  the  Longwood  telephone  girl 
most  had  heart  failure  every  time  he  passed 
the  window  of  the  Exchange. 

I  will  say,  to  excuse  myself,  that  there's 
few  girls  who  wouldn't  have  put  their  hats 
straight  and  walked  their  prettiest  when  they 
saw  him  coming.  Gee — he  was  a  good  looker! 
Like  those  advertisements  for  collars  and 
shirts  you  see  in  the  back  of  the  magazines — 
you  know  the  ones.  But  it  wasn't  that  that 
got  me.  It  was  his  ways,  always  polite,  never 

8 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

fresh.  If  he'd  meet  me  in  the  street  he'd  raise 
his  hat  as  if  I  was  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  And 
there  wasn't  any  hanging  round  my  switch- 
board and  asking  me  to  make  dates  for  dinner 
in  town.  He  was  always  jolly,  but — a  girl  in 
a  telephone  exchange  gets  to  know  a  lot — he 
was  always  a  gentleman. 

He  lived  at  Firehill — forty  miles  from 
Longwood — with  two  old  servants,  David  Gil- 
sey  and  his  wife,  who'd  been  with  his  mother 
and  just  doted  on  him.  But  everybody  liked 
him.  There  wasn't  but  one  criticism  I  ever 
heard  passed  on  him  and  that  was  that  he  had 
a  violent  temper.  Casey,  his  chauffeur,  told 
a  story  in  the  village  of  how  one  day,  when 
they  were  passing  a  farm,  they  saw  an  Italian 
laborer  prod  a  horse  with  a  pitchfork.  Be- 
fore he  knew,  Mr.  Reddy  was  out  of  the  car 
and  over  the  fence  and  mashing  the  life  out 
of  that  dago.  It  took  Casey  and  the  farmer 
to  pull  him  off  and  they  thought  the  dago'd 
be  killed  before  they  could. 

There  was  talk  in  Longwood  that  he  hadn't 
9 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

much  money — much,  the  way  the  Reddys  had 
always  had  it — and  was  going  to  study  law 
for  a  living.  But  he  must  have  had  some,  for 
he  kept  up  the  house,  and  had  two  motors, 
one  just  a  common  roadster  and  the  other  a 
long  gray  racing  car  that  he'd  let  out  on  the 
turnpike  till  he  was  twice  arrested  and  once 
ran  over  a  dog. 

My,  how  well  I  got  to  know  that  car  I  When 
I  first  came  I  only  saw  it  at  long  intervals. 
Then — just  as  if  luck  was  on  my  side — I  be- 
gan to  see  it  oftener  and  oftener,  slowing 
down  as  it  came  along  Main  Street,  swinging 
round  the  corner,  jouncing  across  the  tracks, 
and  dropping  out  of  sight  behind  the  houses 
at  the  head  of  Maple  Lane. 

"What's  bringing  Jack  Reddy  in  this  long 
way  so  often?"  people  would  say  at  first. 

Then,  after  a  while,  when  they'd  see  the 
gray  car,  they'd  look  sly  at  each  other  and 
wink. 

There's  one  good  thing  about  having  a 
crush  on  a  party  that's  never  thought  any 

10 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

more  about  you  than  if  you  were  the  peg  he 
hangs  his  hat  on — it  doesn't  hurt  so  bad  when 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  own  kind  of  girl. 

And  that  brings  me — as  if  I  was  in  the 
gray  car  speeding  down  Maple  Lane — to  Ma- 
pleshade  and  the  Fowlers  and  Sylvia  Hes- 
keth. 


II 

ABOUT  a  mile  from  Longwood,  stand- 
ing among  ancient,  beautiful  trees,  is 
Mapleshade,  Dr.  Dan  Fowler's  place. 

It  was  once  a  farmhouse,  over  a  century 
old,  but  two  and  a  half  years  ago  when  Dr. 
Fowler  bought  it  he  fixed  it  all  up,  raised 
the  roof,  built  on  a  servants'  wing  and  a  piaz- 
za with  columns  and  turned  the  farm  build- 
ings into  a  garage.  Artists  and  such  people 
say  it's  the  prettiest  place  in  this  part  of  the 
State,  and  it  certainly  is  a  picture,  especially 
in  summer,  with  the  lawns  mown  close  as  vel- 
vet and  the  flower-beds  like  bits  of  carpet  laid 
out  to  air. 

The  Doctor  bought  a  big  bit  of  land  with 
it — I  don't  know  how  many  hundred  acres — 
so  the  house,  though  it's  not  far  from  the  vil- 

12 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

lage,  is  kind  of  secluded  and  shut  away.  You 
get  to  it  by  Maple  Lane,  a  little  winding  road 
that  runs  between  trees  caught  together  with 
wild  grape  and  Virginia  creeper.  In  summer 
they're  like  green  walls  all  draped  over  with 
the  vines  and  in  winter  they  turn  into  a  rus- 
tling gray  hedge,  woven  so  close  it's  hard  to 
see  through.  About  ten  minutes'  walk  from 
the  gate  of  Mapleshade  there's  a  pine  that 
was  struck  by  lightning  and  stands  up  black 
and  bare. 

When  the  house  was  finished  the  Doctor, 
who  was  a  bachelor,  married  Mrs.  Hesketh,  a 
widow  lady  accounted  rich,  and  he  and  she 
came  there  as  bride  and  groom  with  her  daugh- 
ter, Sylvia  Hesketh.  I  hadn't  come  yet,  but 
from  what  I've  heard,  there  was  gossip  about 
them  from  the  start.  What  I  can  say  from 
my  own  experience  is  that  I'd  hardly  got  my 
grip  unpacked  when  I  began  to  hear  of  the 
folks  at  Mapleshade. 

They  lived  in  great  style  with  a  housekeeper, 
a  butler  and  a  French  maid  for  the  ladies.  In 

13 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  garage  were  three  automobiles,  Mrs.  Fow- 
ler's limousine,  the  Doctor's  car  and  a  dandy 
little  roadster  that  belonged  to  Miss  Sylvia. 
Neither  she  nor  the  Doctor  bothered  much  with 
the  chauffeur.  They  left  him  to  take  Mrs. 
Fowler  round  and  drove  themselves,  the  joke 
going  that  if  Miss  Sylvia  ever  went  broke  she 
could  qualify  for  a  chauffeur's  job. 

After  a  while  the  story  came  out  that  it 
wasn't  Mrs.  Fowler  who  was  so  rich  but  Miss 
Hesketh.  The  late  Mr.  Hesketh  had  only  left 
his  wife  a  small  fortune,  willing  the  rest — mil- 
lions, it  was  said — to  his  daughter.  She  was 
a  minor — nineteen — and  the  trustees  of  the 
estate  allowed  her  a  lot  of  money  for  her  main- 
tenance, thirty  thousand  a  year  they  had  it  in 
Longwood. 

In  spite  of  the  grand  way  they  lived  there 
wasn't  much  company  at  Mapleshade.  Anne 
Hennessey,  the  housekeeper,  told  me  Mrs. 
Fowler  was  so  dead  in  love  with  her  husband 
she  didn't  want  the  bother  of  entertaining  peo- 
ple. And  the  Doctor  liked  a  quiet  life.  He'd 


been  a  celebrated  surgeon  in  New  York  but 
had  retired  only  for  consultations  and  special 
cases  now  and  again.  He  was  very  good  to  the 
people  round  about,  and  would  come  in  and 
help  when  our  little  Dr.  Pease,  or  Dr.  Graham, 
at  the  Junction,  were  up  against  something 
serious.  I'll  never  forget  when  Mick  Dona- 
hue, the  station  agent's  boy,  got  run  over  by 
Freight  No.  22.  But  I'm  sidetracked  again. 
Anyhow,  the  Doctor  amputated  the  leg  and  lit- 
tle Mick's  stumping  round  on  a  wooden  pin 
almost  as  good  as  ever. 

But  even  so  they  weren't  liked  much.  They 
held  their  heads  very  high,  Mrs.  Fowler  driv- 
ing through  the  village  like  it  was  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, sending  the  chauffeur  into  the  shops  and 
not  at  all  affable  to  the  tradespeople.  The 
Doctor  wouldn't  trouble  to  give  you  so  much 
as  a  nod,  just  stride  along  looking  straight 
ahead.  When  the  story  got  about  that  he'd 
lost  most  of  the  money  he'd  made  doctoring 
I  didn't  bear  any  resentment,  seeing  it  was 
worry  that  made  him  that  way. 

15 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

But  Miss  Sylvia  was  made  on  a  different 
measure.  My,  but  she  was  a  winner!  Even 
after  I  knew  what  brought  Jack  Reddy  in 
from  Firehill  so  often  I  couldn't  be  set  against 
her.  Jealous  I  might  be  of  a  girl  like  my- 
self, but  not  of  one  who  was  the  queen  bee 
of  the  hive. 

She  was  a  beauty  from  the  ground  up — a 
blonde  with  hair  like  corn  silk  that  she  wore 
in  a  loose,  fluffy  knot  with  little  curly  ends 
hanging  on  her  neck.  Her  face  was  pure  pink 
and  white,  the  only  dark  thing  in  it  her  big 
brown  eyes,  that  were  as  clear  and  soft  as  a 
baby's.  And  she  was  a  great  dresser,  always 
the  latest  novelty,  and  looking  prettier  in  each 
one.  Mrs.  Galway'd  say  to  me,  with  her  nose 
caught  up,  scornful, 

"To  my  mind  it's  not  refined  to  advertise 
your  wealth  on  your  back." 

But  I  didn't  worry,  knowing  Mrs.  Galway'd 
have  advertised  hers  if  she'd  had  the 
wealth  or  a  decent  shaped  back  to  advertise  it 
on,  which  she  hadn't,  being  round-shouldered. 

16 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

There  was  none  of  the  haughty  ways  of 
her  parents  about  Miss  Sylvia.  When  she'd 
come  into  the  exchange  to  send  a  call  (a  thing 
that  puzzled  me  first  but  I  soon  caught  on) 
she'd  always  stop  and  have  a  pleasant  word 
with  me.  On  bright  afternoons  I'd  see  her 
pass  on  horseback,  straight  as  an  arrow,  with 
a  man's  hat  on  her  golden  hair.  She'd  always 
have  a  smile  for  everyone,  touching  her  hat 
brim  real  sporty  with  the  end  of  her  whip. 
Even  when  she  was  in  her  motor,  speeding 
down  Main  Street,  she'd  give  you  a  hail  as 
jolly  as  if  she  was  your  college  chum. 

Sometimes  she'd  be  alone  but  generally  there 
was  a  man  along.  There  were  a  lot  of  them 
hanging  round  her,  which  was  natural,  seeing 
she  had  everything  to  draw  them  like  a  candle 
drawing  moths.  They'd  come  and  go  from 
town  and  now  and  then  stay  over  Sunday  at 
the  Longwood  Inn — it's  a  swell  little  place 
done  up  in  the  Colonial  style — and  you'd  see 
them  riding  and  walking  with  her,  very  de- 
voted. At  first  everybody  thought  her  par- 

17 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

ents  were  agreeable  to  all  the  attention  she 
was  getting.  It  wasn't  till  the  Mapleshade 
servants  began  to  talk  too  much  that  we  heard 
the  Fowlers,  especially  the  Doctor,  didn't 
like  it. 

I  hadn't  known  her  long  before  I  began  to 
notice  something  that  interested  me.  A  tele- 
phone girl  sees  so  many  people  and  hears 
such  a  lot  of  confidential  things  on  the  wire, 
that  she  gets  to  know  more  than  most  about 
what  I  suppose  you'd  call  human  nature.  It's 
a  study  that's  always  attracted  me  and  in  Miss 
Sylvia's  case  there  was  a  double  attraction — 
I  was  curious  about  her  for  myself  and  I  was 
curious  about  her  because  of  Jack  Reddy. 

What  I  noticed  was  that  she  was  so  differ- 
ent with  men  to  what  she  was  with  women- 
affable  to  both,  but  it  was  another  kind  of  af- 
fability. I've  seen  considerably  many  girls 
trying  to  throw  their  harpoons  into  men  and 
doing  it  too,  but  they  were  in  the  booby  class 
beside  Miss  Sylvia.  She  was  what  the  nove- 
lists call  a  coquette,  but  she  was  that  dainty 

18 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

and  sly  about  it  that  I  don't  believe  any  of  the 
victims  knew  it.  It  wasn't  what  she  said, 
either;  more  the  way  she  looked  and  the  soft, 
sweet  manner  she  had,  as  if  she  thought  more 
of  the  chap  she  was  talking  to  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world.  She'd  be  that  way  to  one 
in  my  exchange  and  the  next  day  I'd  see 
her  just  the  same  with  another  in  the  drug- 
store. 

It  made  me  uneasy.  Even  if  the  man  you 
love  doesn't  love  you,  you  don't  want  to  see 
him  fooled.  But  I  said  nothing — I'm  the  close 
sort — and  it  wasn't  till  I  came  to  be  friends 
with  Anne  Hennessey  that  I  heard  the  inside 
facts  about  the  family  at  Mapleshade. 

Anne  Hennessey  was  a  Canadian  and  a  fine 
girl.  She  was  a  lady  and  had  a  lady's  job — 
seventy -five  a  month  and  her  own  bathroom — 
and  being  the  real  thing  she  didn't  put  on  any 
airs,  but  when  she  liked  me  made  right  up  to 
me  and  we  soon  were  pals.  After  work  hours 
I'd  sometimes  go  up  to  her  at  Mapleshade 
or  she'd  come  down  to  me  over  the  Elite. 

19 


\ 

THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

I  remember  it  was  in  my  room  one  spring 
evening — me  lying  on  the  bed  and  Anne  sit- 
ting by  the  open  window — that  she  began  to 
talk  about  the  Fowlers.  She  was  not  one 
to  carry  tales,  but  I  could  see  she  had  some- 
thing on  her  mind  and  for  the  first  time  she 
loosened  up.  I  was  picking  over  a  box  of 
chocolates  and  I  didn't  give  her  a  hint  how 
keen  I  was  to  hear,  acting  like  the  candies  had 
the  best  part  of  my  attention.  She  began  by 
saying  the  Doctor  and  Miss  Sylvia  didn't  get 
on  well. 

"That's  just  like  a  novel,"  I  answered,  "the 
heroine's  stepfather's  always  her  natural  en- 
emy." 

"He's  not  that  in  this  case,"  said  Anne — she 
speaks  English  fine,  like  the  teachers  in  the 
High — "I'm  sure  he  means  well  by  her,  but 
they  can't  get  on  at  all,  they're  always  quarrel- 
ing." 

"There's  many  a  gilded  home  hides  a 
tragedy.  What  do  they  fight  about?" 

"Things  she  does  he  disapproves  of.  She's 
20 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL' 

very  spoiled  and  self-willed.  No  one's  ever 
controlled  her  and  she  resents  it  from  him." 

"What's  he  disapprove  of?" 

Anne  didn't  answer  right  off,  looking 
thoughtful  out  of  the  window.  Then  she  said 
slow  as  if  she  was  considering  her  words: 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you,  Molly,  because  I 
know  you're  no  gossip  and  can  be  trusted,  and 
the  truth  is,  I'm  worried.  I  don't  like  the 
situation  up  at  Mapleshade." 

I  swung  my  feet  on  to  the  floor  and  sat 
up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  nibbling  at  a  choco- 
late almond. 

"Here's  where  I  get  dumb,"  I  said,  sort  of 
casual  to  encourage  her. 

"Sylvia  Hesketh's  a  girl  that  needs  a  strong 
hand  over  her  and  there's  no  one  has  it.  Her 
father's  dead,  her  mother — poor  Mrs.  Fow- 
ler's only  a  grown-up  baby  ready  to  say  black 
is  white  if  her  husband  wants  her  to — and  Dr. 
Fowler's  trying  to  do  it  and  he's  going  about 
it  all  wrong.  You  see,"  she  said,  turning  to 
me  very  serious,  "it's  not  only  that  she's  head- 

21 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

strong  and  extravagant  but  she's  an  incorrigi- 
ble flirt." 

"Is  there  a  place  in  the  back  of  the  book 
where  you  can  find  out  what  incorrigible 
means?"  I  said. 

Anne  smiled,  but  not  as  if  she  felt  like  it. 

"Uncontrollable,  irrepressible.  Her  mother 
— Mrs.  Fowler's  ready  to  tell  me  anything  and 
everything — says  she's  always  been  like  that. 
And,  of  course,  with  her  looks  and  her  for- 
tune the  men  are  around  her  like  flies  round 
honey." 

"Why  does  the  Doctor  mind  that?" 

"I  suppose  he  wouldn't  mind  if  they  just 
came  to  Mapleshade  or  Longwood.  But — 
that's  what  the  quarreling's  about — he's  found 
out  that  she  meets  them  in  town,  goes  to  lunch 
and  the  matinee  with  them." 

"Excuse  me,  but  I've  left  my  etiquette  book 
on  the  piano.  What's  wrong  about  going  to 
the  matinee  or  to  lunch?" 

"Nothing's  really  wrong.  Mind  you,  Molly, 
I  know  Sylvia  through  and  through  and 

22 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

there's  no  harm  in  her — it's  just  the  bringing- 
up  and  the  spoiling  and  the  admiration.  But, 
of  course,  in  her  position,  a  girl  doesn't  go 
about  that  way  without  a  chaperone.  The 
Doctor's  perfectly  right  to  object." 

I  was  looking  down,  pretending  to  hunt 
over  the  box. 

"Who  does  she  go  with?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  there  are  several.  A  man  named  Caris- 

brook I'd  seen  him  often,  a  swell  guy 

in  white  spats  and  a  high  hat — "and  a  young 
lawyer  called  Dunham  and  Ben  Robinson,  a 
Canadian  like  me.  People  see  her  with  them 
and  tell  the  doctor  and  there's  a  row." 

I  looked  into  the  box  as  careful  as  if  I  was 
searching  for  a  diamond. 

"Ain't  Mr.  Reddy  one  of  the  happy  fam- 
ily?" I  asked.  "Ah,  here's  the  last  almond!" 

"Oh,  of  course,  young  Reddy.  I  think  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  she  married  him. 
Everybody  says  he's  a  fine  fellow,  and  I  tell 
you  now,  Molly,  with  Sylvia  so  willful  and  the 
doctor  so  domineering  and  Mrs.  Fowler  being 

23 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

pulled  to  pieces  between  them,  things  at 
Mapleshade  can't  go  on  long  the  way  they 
are." 

That  was  in  May.  At  the  end  of  June  the 
Fowlers  went  to  Bar  Harbor  with  all  their 
outfit  for  the  summer.  After  that  Jack  Reddy 
didn't  come  into  Longwood  much.  I  heard 
that  he  was  spending  a  good  deal  of  his  time 
at  the  bungalow  at  Hochalaga  Lake,  and  I 
did  see  him  a  few  times  meeting  his  company 
at  the  train — he  had  some  week-end  parties 
out  there — and  bringing  them  back  in  the  gray 
car. 

At  the  end  of  September  the  Fowlers  came 
home.  It  was  great  weather,  clear  and  crisp, 
with  the  feel  of  frost  in  the  air.  Most  every- 
body was  out  of  doors  and  I  saw  Sylvia  often, 
sometimes  on  horseback,  sometimes  driving 
her  motor.  She  was  prettier  than  ever  for  the 
change  and  seemed  like  she  couldn't  stay  in 
the  house.  I'd  see  her  riding  toward  home  in 
the  red  light  of  the  sunset,  and  as  I  walked 
back  from  work  her  car  often  would  flash  past 

24 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

me,  speeding  through  the  early  dark  toward 
Maple  Lane. 

Anne  said  they'd  had  a  fairly  peaceful  sum- 
mer and  she  hoped  they  were  going  to  get  on 
better.  There  had  only  been  one  row — that 
was  about  a  man  who  was  up  at  Bar  Harbor 
and  had  met  Sylvia  and  paid  her  a  good  deal 
of  attention.  The  Doctor  had  been  very  angry 
as  he  disapproved  of  the  man — Cokesbury  was 
his  name. 

"Cokesbury!"  I  cut  in  surprised — we  were 
in  Anne's  room  that  evening — "why,  he  be- 
longs round  here." 

Anne  had  heard  that  and  wanted  to  know 
what  I  knew  about  him,  which  I'll  write  down 
in  this  place  as  it  seems  to  fit  in  and  has  to 
be  told  somewhere. 

When  I  first  came  to  Longwood,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cokesbury  were  living  on  their  estate, 
Cokesbury  Lodge,  about  twenty-five  miles 
from  us,  near  Azalea.  They  had  been  in 
France  for  a  year  previous  to  that,  then  come 
back  and  taken  up  their  residence  in  Mr. 

25 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Cokesbury's  country  seat,  and  it  was  shortly 
after  that  Mrs.  Cokesbury  died  there,  leaving 
three  children.  For  a  while  the  widower 
stayed  on  with  nurses  and  governesses  to  look 
after  the  poor  motherless  kids.  Then,  the  eld- 
est boy  taking  sick  and  nearly  dying,  he  de- 
cided to  send  them  to  his  wife's  parents,  who 
had  wanted  them  since  Mrs.  Cokesbury's 
death. 

So  the  establishment  at  the  Lodge  was 
broken  up  and  Mr.  Cokesbury  went  to  live 
in  town.  There  were  rumors  that  the  house 
was  to  be  sold,  but  in  the  spring  Sands,  the 
Pullman  conductor,  told  me  that  Mr.  Cokes- 
bury  had  been  down  several  times,  staying 
over  Sunday  and  had  said  he  had  given  up 
the  idea  of  selling  the  place.  He  told  Sands 
he  couldn't  get  his  price  for  it  and  what  was 
the  sense  of  selling  at  a  loss,  especially  when 
he  could  come  out  there  and  get  a  breath  of 
country  air  when  he  was  scorched  up  with  the 
city  heat? 

I'd  passed  the  house  one  day  in  August 
26 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

when  I  was  on  an  auto  ride  with  some  friends. 
It  was  a  big,  rambling  place  with  a  lot  of 
dismal-looking  pines  around  it,  about  five  miles 
from  Azalea  and  with  no  near  neighbors.  Mr. 
Cokesbury  only  kept  one  car — he'd  had  several 
when  his  wife  was  there — and  used  to  drive 
himself  down  from  the  Lodge  to  the  station, 
leave  his  car  in  the  Azalea  garage,  and  drive 
himself  back  the  next  time  he  came.  He  had 
no  servants  or  caretaker,  which  he  didn't  need, 
as,  after  Mrs.  Cokesbury's  death,  all  the  valua- 
ble things  had  been  taken  out  of  the  house 
and  sent  to  town  for  storage. 

It  gave  me  a  jar  to  hear  that  Sylvia  Hes- 
keth — who,  in  my  mind,  was  as  good  as  en- 
gaged to  Jack  Reddy — would  have  anything 
to  do  with  him.  I'd  never  seen  him,  but  I'd 
heard  a  lot  that  wasn't  to  his  credit.  He  hadn't 
been  good  to  his  wife — everybody  said  she  was 
a  real  lady — but  was  the  gay,  wild  kind,  and 
not  young,  either.  Anne  said  he  was  forty 
if  he  was  a  day.  When  I  asked  her  what  Syl- 
via could  see  in  an  old  gink  like  that,  she  just 

27 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

shrugged  up  her  shoulders  and  said,  who  could 
tell — Sylvia  was  made  that  way.  She  was 
like  some  woman  whose  name  I  can't  remem- 
ber who  sat  on  a  rock  and  sang  to  the  sail- 
ors till  they  got  crazy  and  jumped  into  the 
water. 

My  head  was  full  of  these  things  one  glori- 
ous afternoon  toward  the  end  of  October 
when — it  being  my  holiday — I  started  out  for 
a  walk  through  the  woods.  The  woods  cover 
the  hills  behind  the  village  and  they're  grand, 
miles  and  miles  of  them.  But  wait!  There 
was  a  little  thing  that  happened,  by  the  way, 
that's  worth  telling,  for  it  gave  me  a  premoni- 
tion— is  that  the  word?  Or,  maybe,  I'd  better 
say  connected  up  with  what  was  in  my  mind. 

I  was  walking  slow  down  Main  Street  when 
opposite  the  postoffice  I  saw  all  the  loafers 
and  most  of  the  tradespeople  lined  up  in  a 
ring  staring  at  a  bunch  of  those  dago  acro- 
bats that  go  about  the  State  all  summer  do- 
ing stunts  on  a  bit  of  carpet.  I'd  seen  them 
often — chaps  in  dirty  pink  tights  walking  on 

28 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

their  hands  and  rolling  round  in  knots — and 
I  wouldn't  have  stopped  but  I  got  a  glimpse 
of  little  Mick  Donahue  stumping  round  the 
outside  trying  to  squeeze  in  and  trying  not 
to  cry  because  he  couldn't.  So  I  stopped  and 
hoisted  him  up  for  a  good  view,  telling  the 
men  in  front  to  break  a  way  for  the  kid  to 
see. 

There  was  a  dago  scraping  on  a  fiddle  and 
while  the  acrobats  were  performing  on  their 
carpet,  a  big  bear  with  a  little,  brown,  shriv- 
eled-up  man  holding  it  by  a  chain,  was  dancing. 
And  when  I  got  my  first  look  at  that  bear,  in 
spite  of  all  my  worry  I  burst  out  laughing, 
for,  dancing  away  there  solemn  and  slow,  it 
was  the  dead  image  of  Dr.  Fowler. 

You'd  have  laughed  yourself  if  you'd  seen 
it — that  is,  if  you'd  known  the  Doctor.  There 
was  something  so  like  him  in  its  expression 
— sort  of  gloomy  and  thoughtful — and  its  lit- 
tle eyes  set  up  high  in  its  head  and  looking 
angry  at  the  crowd  as  if  it  despised  them. 
When  its  master  jerked  the  chain  and  shouted 

29 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

something  in  a  foreign  lingo  it  hitched  up  its 
lip  like  it  was  trying  to  smile,  and  that  side- 
ways grin,  as  if  it  didn't  feel  at  all  pleasant, 
was  just  the  way  the  Doctor'd  smile  when 
he  came  into  the  Exchange  and  gave  me  a 
number. 

It  fascinated  me  and  I  stood  staring  with 
little  Mick  sitting  on  my  arm,  just  loving  it 
all,  his  dirty  little  fist  clasped  round  a  penny. 
Then  the  music  stopped  and  one  of  the  acro- 
bats came  round  with  a  hat  and  little  Mick 
gave  a  great  sigh  as  if  he  was  coming  out  of 
a  dream.  "If  you  hadn't  come,  Molly,  I'd 
have  missed  it,"  he  said,  looking  into  my  face 
in  that  sweet  wistful  way  sickly  kids  have, 
"and  it's  the  last  time  they'll  be  round  this 
year." 

I  kissed  him  and  put  him  down  and  told 
the  men  as  I  squeezed  out  to  keep  him  in  the 
front  or  they'd  hear  from  me.  Then  I  walked 
off  toward  the  woods  thinking. 

It  was  a  funny  idea  I'd  got  into  my  head. 
I'd  once  read  in  a  paper  that  when  people 

80 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

looked  like  animals  they  resembled  the  ani- 
mals in  their  dispositions — and  I  was  won- 
dering was  Dr.  Fowler  like  a  bear,  grouchy 
and  when  you  crossed  him  savage.  Maybe  it 
was  because  I'd  been  so  worried,  but  it  gave 
me  a  kind  of  chill.  My  thoughts  went  back 
to  Mapleshade  and  I  got  one  of  those  queer 
glimpses  (like  a  curtain  was  lifted  for  a  sec- 
ond and  you  could  see  things  in  the  future) 
of  trouble  there — something  dark — I  don't 
know  how  to  explain  it,  but  it  was  as  if  I  got 
a  new  line  on  the  Doctor,  as  if  the  bear  had 
made  me  see  through  the  surface  clear  into 
him. 

I  tried  to  shake  it  off  for  I  wanted  to  en- 
joy my  afternoon  in  the  woods.  They  are 
beautiful  at  that  season,  the  trees  full  of 
colored  leaves,  and  all  quiet  except  for  the 
rustlings  of  little  animals  round  the  roots. 
There's  a  road  that  winds  along  under  the 
branches,  and  trails,  soft  under  foot  with 
fallen  leaves  and  moss,  that  you  can  follow 
for  miles. 

81 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I  was  coming  down  one  of  these,  making 
no  more  noise  than  the  squirrels,  when  just 
before  it  crossed  the  road  I  saw  something 
and  stopped.  There,  sitting  side  by  side  on 
a  log,  were  Sylvia  Hesketh  and  a  man.  Close 
to  them,  run  off  to  the  side,  was  a  motor  and 
near  it  tied  to  a  tree  a  horse  with  a  lady's 
saddle.  Sylvia  was  in  her  riding  dress,  look- 
ing a  picture,  her  eyes  on  the  ground  and 
slapping  softly  with  her  whip  on  the  side  of 
her  boot.  The  man  was  leaning  toward  her, 
talking  low  and  earnest  and  staring  hard  into 
her  face. 

To  my  knowledge  I'd  never  seen  him  be- 
fore, and  it  gave  me  a  start — me  saying,  sur- 
prised to  myself,  "Hullo!  here's  another  one?" 
He  was  a  big,  powerful  chap,  with  a  square, 
healthy  looking  face  and  wide  shoulders  on 
him  like  a  prize  fighter.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  loose  coat  and  knickerbockers  and  as  he 
talked  he  had  his  hands  spread  out,  one  on 
each  knee,  great  brown  hands  with  hair  on 
them.  I  was  close  enough  to  see  that,  but 

82 


"Sylvia  was  in  her  riding  dress,  looking  a  picture" 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

he  was  speaking  so  low  and  I  was  so  scared 
that  they'd  see  me  and  think  I  was  spying,  that 
I  didn't  hear  what  he  was  saying.  The  only 
one  that  saw  me  was  the  horse.  It  looked 
up  sudden  with  its  ears  pricked,  staring  sur- 
prised with  its  soft  gentle  eyes. 

I  stole  away  like  a  robber,  not  making  a 
speck  of  noise.  All  the  joy  I'd  been  taking 
in  the  walk  under  the  colored  leaves  was  gone. 
I  felt  kind  of  shriveled  up  inside — the  way 
you  feel  when  someone  you  love  is  sick.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  think  that  Jack  Reddy  was 
giving  his  heart  to  a  girl  who'd  meet  another 
man  out  in  the  woods  and  listen  to  him  so  coy 
and  yet  so  interested. 

As  far  as  I  can  remember,  that  was  a  lit- 
tle over  a  month  from  the  fatal  day.  All  the 
rest  of  October  and  through  the  first  part  of 
November  things  went  along  quiet  and  peace- 
ful. And  then,  suddenly,  everything  came  to- 
gether— quick  like  a  blow. 


Ill 

FOR  two  days  it  had  been  raining,  heavy 
straight  rain.  From  my  window  at  Gal- 
way's  I  could  see  the  fields  round  the  vil- 
lage full  of  pools  and  zigzags  of  water  as  if 
they'd  been  covered  with  a  shiny  gray  veil 
that  was  suddenly  pulled  off  and  had  caught 
in  the  stubble  and  been  torn  to  rags.  Satur- 
day morning  the  weather  broke.  But  the  sky 
was  still  overcast  and  the  air  had  that  sort 
of  warm,  muggy  breathlessness  that  comes 
after  rain.  That  was  November  the  twen- 
tieth. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  and  I  was  sitting  at 
the  switchboard  looking  out  at  the  streets,  all 
puddles  and  ruts,  when  I  got  a  call  from  the 
Dalzells' — a  place  near  the  Junction — for  Ma- 
pleshade. 

84 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Now  you  needn't  get  preachy  and  tell  me  it's 
against  the  rules  to  listen — suspension  and 
maybe  discharge.  I  know  that  better  than 
most.  Didn't  the  roof  over  my  head  and  the 
food  in  my  mouth  depend  on  me  doing  my 
work  according  to  orders?  But  the  fact  is 
that  at  this  time  I  was  keyed  up  so  high  I'd 
got  past  being  cautious.  When  a  call  came 
for  Mapleshade  I  listened,  listened  hard,  with 
all  my  ears.  What  did  I  expect  to  hear?  I 
don't  know  exactly.  It  might  have  been  Jack 
Reddy  and  it  might  have  been  Sylvia — oh, 
never  mind  what  it  was — just  say  I  was  curi- 
ous and  let  it  go  at  that. 

So  I  lifted  up  the  cam  and  took  in  the  con- 
versation. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice — Mrs  Dalzell's,  I 
knew  it  well — and  Dr.  Fowler's.  Hers  was 
trembly  and  excited: 

"Oh,  Dr.  Fowler,  is  that  you?  It's  Mrs. 
Dalzell,  yes,  near  the  Junction.  My  husband's 
very  sick.  We've  had  Dr.  Graham  and  he 
says  it's  appendicitis  and  there  ought  to  be  an 

85 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

operation — now,  as  soon  as  possible.  Do  you 
hear  me?" 

Then  Dr.  Fowler,  very  calm  and  polite: 

"Perfectly,  madam." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad — I've  been  so  terribly  wor- 
ried. It's  so  unexpected.  Mr.  Dalzell's  never 
had  so  much  as  a  cramp  before  and  now " 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  Mrs.  Dalzell,"  came  the 
Doctor.  "Let  me  understand.  Graham  recom- 
mends an  operation,  you  say?" 

"Yes,  Dr.  Fowler,  as  soon  as  possible ;  some- 
thing awful  may  happen  if  it's  not  done.  And 
Dr.  Graham  suggested  you  if  you'd  be  so  kind. 
I  know  it's  a  favor  but  I  must  have  the  best 
for  my  husband.  Won't  you  come?  Please, 
to  oblige  me." 

Dr.  Fowler  asked  some  questions  which  I 
needn't  put  down  and  said  he'd  come  and  if 
necessary  operate.  Then  they  talked  about 
the  best  way  for  him  to  get  there,  the  Doc- 
tor wanting  to  know  if  the  main  line  to  the 
Junction  wouldn't  be  the  quickest.  But  Mrs. 
Dalzell  said  she'd  been  consulting  the  time  ta- 

86 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

bles  and  there'd  be  no  train  from  Longwood 
to  the  Junction  before  two  and  if  he  wouldn't 
mind  and  would  come  in  his  auto  by  the  Fire- 
hill  Road  he'd  get  there  several  hours  sooner. 
He  agreed  to  that  and  it  wasn't  fifteen  min- 
utes after  he'd  hung  up  that  I  saw  him  swing 
past  my  window  in  his  car,  driving  himself. 

Later  on  in  the  afternoon  I  got  another 
call  from  the  Dalzells'  for  Mapleshade  and 
heard  the  Doctor  tell  Mrs.  Fowler  that  the 
operation  had  been  a  serious  one  and  that  he 
would  stay  there  for  the  night  and  probably  all 
the  next  day. 

Before  that  second  call,  about  two  hours 
after  the  first  one,  there  came  another  message 
for  Mapleshade  that  before  a  week  was  out 
was  in  most  every  paper  in  the  country  and 
that  lifted  me  right  into  the  middle  of  the 
Hesketh  mystery. 

It  was  near  one  o'clock,  an  hour  when 
work's  slack  round  Longwood,  everybody 
being  either  at  their  dinner  or  getting  ready 
for  it.  The  call  was  from  a  public  pay  sta- 

87 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

tion  and  was  in  a  man's  voice — a  voice  I  didn't 
know,  but  that,  because  of  my  curiosity,  I  lis- 
tened to  as  sharp  as  if  it  was  my  lover's  ask- 
ing me  to  marry  him. 

The  man  wanted  to  see  Miss  Sylvia  and, 
after  a  short  wait,  I  heard  her  answer,  very 
gay  and  cordial  and  evidently  knowing  him 
at  once  without  any  questions.  If  she'd  said 
one  word  to  show  who  he  was  things  after- 
ward would  have  been  very  different,  but  there 
wasn't  a  single  phrase  that  you  could  iden- 
tify him  by — all  anyone  could  have  caught 
was  that  they  seemed  to  know  each  other  very 
well. 

He  began  by  telling  her  it  was  a  long  time 
since  he'd  seen  her  and  wanting  to  know  if 
she'd  come  to  town  on  Monday  and  take  lunch 
with  him  at  Sherry's  and  afterward  go  to  a 
concert. 

"Monday,"  she  said  very  slow  and  soft,  "the 
day  after  to-morrow?  No,  I  can't  make  any 
engagement  for  Monday." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 
88 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

She  didn't  answer  right  off  and  when  she 
did,  though  her  voice  was  so  sweet,  there  was 
something  sly  and  secret  about  it. 

"I've  something  else  to  do." 

"Can't  you  postpone  it?" 

She  laughed  at  that,  a  little  soft  laugh  that 
came  bubbling  through  her  words: 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not." 

"Must  be  something  very  interesting." 

"Um — maybe  so." 

"You're  very  mysterious — can't  I  be  told 
what  it  is?" 

"Why  should  you  be  told?" 

That  riled  him,  I  could  hear  it  in  his  voice. 

"As  a  friend,  or  if  I  don't  come  under  that 
head,  as  a  fellow  who's  got  the  frosty  mit  and 
wants  to  know  why." 

"I  don't  think  that's  any  reason.  I  have 
no  engagement  with  you  and  I  have  with — 
someone  else." 

"Just  tell  me  one  thing — is  it  a  man  or  a 
woman?" 

She  began  to  laugh  again,  and  if  I'd  been 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  that  laugh 
would  have  made  me  wild. 

"Which  do  you  think?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  think,  I  know"  and  I  knew  that  he 
was  mad. 

"Well,  if  you  know,"  she  said  as  sweet  as 
pie,  "I  needn't  tell  you  any  more.  I'll  say 
good-bye." 

"No,"  he  shouted,  "don't  hang  up — wait. 
What  do  you  want  to  torment  me  for?"  Then 
he  got  sort  of  coaxing,  "It  isn't  kind  to  treat 
a  fellow  this  way.  Can't  you  tell  me  who  it 
is?" 

"No,  that's  a  secret.  You  can't  know  a 
thing  till  I  choose  to  tell  you  and  I  don't 
choose  now." 

"If  I  come  over  Sunday  afternoon  will  you 
see  me?" 

"What  time?" 

"Any  time  you  say — I'm  your  humble  slave, 
as  you  know." 

"I'm  going  out  about  seven." 

"Where?" 

40 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"That's  another  secret." 

I  think  a  child  listening  to  that  conversa- 
tion would  have  seen  he  was  getting  madder 
every  minute  and  yet  he  was  so  afraid  she'd 
cut  him  off  that  he  had  to  keep  it  under  and 
talk  pleasant. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I've  something  I 
want  to  say  to  you  awfully.  If  I  run  over 
in  my  car  and  get  there  round  six-thirty,  can 
you  see  me  for  a  few  minutes?" 

She  didn't  answer  at  once.  Then  she  said 
slow  as  if  she  was  undecided: 

"Not  at  the  house." 

"I  didn't  mean  at  the  house.  Say  in  Ma- 
ple Lane,  by  the  gate.  I  won't  keep  you  more 
than  five  or  ten  minutes." 

"Six-thirty's  rather  late." 

"Well,  any  time  you  say." 

"Can't  you  be  there  exactly  at  six-fifteen?" 

"If  that's  a  condition." 

"It  is.  If  you're  late  you  won't  find  me. 
I'll  be  gone" — she  began  to  laugh  again — 
"taking  my  secret  with  me." 

41 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

"I'll  be  there  on  the  dot." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  can  come — at  the  gate 
just  as  the  clock  marks  one  quarter  after  six. 
And,  maybe,  if  you're  good,  I'll  tell  you  the 
secret.  Good-bye  until  then — try  not  to  be  too 
curious.  It's  a  bad  habit  and  I've  seen  signs 
of  it  in  you  lately.  Good-bye." 

Before  he  could  say  another  word  she'd  dis- 
connected. 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  thinking  it  over. 
What  was  she  up  to?  What  was  the  secret? 
And  who  was  the  man?  "Run  over  in  his 
car" — that  looked  like  someone  from  one  of 
the  big  estates.  How  many  of  them  had  she 
buzzing  round  her? 

And  then,  for  all  I  was  so  downhearted,  I 
couldn't  help  smiling  to  think  of  those  two 
supposing  they  were  talking  so  secluded  and 
an  East  Side  tenement  girl  taking  it  all  in. 
Little  did  I  guess  then  that  me  breaking  the 
rules  that  way,  instead  of  destroying  me 

was  going  to But  that  doesn't  come  in 

here. 

42 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

And  now  I  come  to  Sunday  the  twenty-first, 
a  date  I'll  never  forget. 

It  seemed  to  me  afterward  that  Nature 
knew  of  the  tragedy  and  prepared  for  it.  The 
weather  was  duller  and  grayer  than  it  had  been 
on  Saturday,  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring  and 
the  sky  all  mottled  over  with  clouds,  dark  and 
heavy  looking.  A  full  moon  was  due  and  as 
I  went  to  the  Exchange  I  thought  of  the 
sweethearts  that  had  dates  to  walk  out  in  the 
moonlight  and  how  disappointed  they'd  be. 

Things  weren't  cheerful  at  the  Exchange 
either.  I  found  Minnie  Trail,  the  night  opera- 
tor, as  white  as  a  ghost,  saying  she  felt  as  if 
one  of  her  sick  headaches  was  coming  on  and 
if  it  did  would  I  stay  on  over  time?  I  knew 
those  headaches — they  ran  along  sometimes 
till  eight  or  nine.  I  told  her  to  go  right  home 
to  bed  and  I'd  hold  the  fort  till  she  was  able 
to  relieve  me.  We  often  did  turns  like  that, 
one  for  the  other.  It's  one  of  the  advantages 
of  being  in  a  small  country  office — no  one  picks 
on  you  for  acting  human. 

48 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

About  ten  I  had  a  call  from  Anne  Hennes- 
sey. "Have  you  got  anything  on  for  this 
evening,  Molly?" 

"I  have  not.  "This  is  Longwood,  not  gay 
Paree." 

"Then  I'll  come  round  to  Gal  ways,  about 
seven  and  we'll  go  to  the  Gilt  Edge  for  sup- 
per. I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  Gilt  Edge  Lunch  was  where  I  took 
my  meals,  a  nice  clean  little  joint  close  to  the 
office.  But  I  didn't  know  when  I'd  get  my 
supper  that  night,  so  I  called  back: 

"That's  all  right,  sister,  but  come  to  the  Ex- 
change. Minnie's  head's  on  the  blink  and  I'll 
stay  on  here  late.  Anything  up?" 

"Yes.     I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  over 
the  wire.     There's  been  another  row  here— 
yesterday    morning.      It's    horrible;    I    can't 
stand  it.     I'll   tell   you   more   this   evening. 
So  long." 

I  put  my  elbows  on  the  table  and  sat  for- 
ward thinking.  If  you'd  asked  me  a  year  ago 
what  I  wanted  most  in  the  world  I'd  have  said 

44 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

money.  But  I'd  learnt  considerable  since 
then.  "Money  don't  do  it,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"Look  at  the  Fowlers  with  their  jewels  and 
their  millions  scrapping  till  even  the  house- 
keeper on  a  fancy  salary  with  a  private  bath 
can't  stand  it." 

And  there  came  up  in  my  mind  the  memory 
of  the  East  Side  tenement  where  I  was  raised. 
I  thought  of  my  poor  father,  most  killed  with 
work,  and  my  mother  eking  things  out,  doing 
housecleaning  and  never  a  hard  word  to  each 
other  or  to  me. 

The  night  settled  down  early,  black,  dark 
and  very  still.  At  seven  Anne  Hennessey 
came  in  and  sat  down  by  the  radiator,  which 
was  making  queer  noises  with  the  heat  coming 
up.  Supper  time's  like  dinner — few  calls— 
so  I  turned  round  in  my  chair,  ready  for  a 
good  talk,  and  asked  about  the  trouble  at 
Mapleshade. 

"Oh,  it  was  another  quarrel  yesterday  morn- 
ing at  breakfast  and  with  Harper,  the  butler, 
hearing  every  word.  He  said  it  was  the  worst 

45 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

they'd  ever  had.  He's  a  self-respecting,  high- 
class  servant  and  was  shocked." 

"Sylvia  and  the  Doctor  again?" 

"Yes,  and  poor  Mrs.  Fowler  crying  behind 
the  coffee  pot." 

"The  same  old  subject?" 

"Oh,  of  course.  It's  young  Reddy  this  time. 
Sylvia's  been  out  a  good  deal  this  autumn  in 
her  car;  several  times  she's  been  gone  nearly 
the  whole  day.  When  the  Doctor  questioned 
her  she'd  either  be  evasive  or  sulky.  On  Fri- 
day someone  told  him  they'd  seen  her  far  up 
on  the  turnpike  with  Jack  Reddy  in  his  racer." 

I  fired  up,  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"Why  should  he  be  mad  about  that?  Isn't 
Mr.  Reddy  good  enough  for  her?" 

"1  think  he  is.  I  told  you  before  I  thought 
the  best  thing  she  could  do  would  be  to  marry 
him.  But—  '  she  looked  round  to  see  that 
no  one  was  coming  in — "don't  say  a  word  of 
what  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  I  have  no  right 
to  repeat  what  I  hear  as  an  employee  but  I'm 
worried  and  don't  know  what's  the  best  thing 

46 


to  do.  Mrs.  Fowler  has  as  good  as  told  me 
that  her  husband's  lost  all  his  money  and  it's 
Sylvia's  that's  running  Mapleshade.  And 
what  /  think  is  that  the  Doctor  doesn't  want 
her  to  marry  anyone.  It  isn't  her  he  minds 
losing;  it's  thirty  thousand  a  year." 

"But  when  she  comes  of  age  she  can  do  what 
she  wants  and  if  he  makes  it  so  disagreeable 
she  won't  want  to  live  there." 

"That's  two  years  off  yet.  He  may  re- 
coup himself  in  that  time." 

"Oh,  I  see.  But  he  can't  do  any  good  by 
fighting  with  her." 

"Molly,  you're  a  wise  little  woman.  Of 
course  he  can't,  but  he  doesn't  know  it.  He 
treats  that  hot-headed,  high-spirited  girl  like 
a  child  of  five.  Mark  my  words,  there's  go- 
ing to  be  trouble  at  Mapleshade." 

I  thought  of  the  telephone  message  I'd 
overheard  the  day  before  and  it  came  to  me 
suddenly  what  "the  secret"  might  be.  Could 
Sylvia  have  been  planning  to  run  away?  I 
didn't  say  anything — it's  natural  to  me  and 

47 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

you  get  trained  along  those  lines  in  the  tele- 
phone business — and  I  sat  turning  it  over  in 
my  mind  as  Anne  went  on. 

"I'd  leave  to-morrow  only  I'm  so  sorry  for 
Mrs.  Fowler.  She's  as  helpless  as  a  baby  and 
seems  to  cling  to  me.  The  other  day  she  told 
me  about  her  first  marriage — how  her  hus- 
band didn't  care  for  her  but  was  crazy  about 
Sylvia — that's  why  he  left  her  almost  all  his 
money." 

I  wasn't  listening  much,  still  thinking  about 
"the  secret."  If  she  was  running  away  was 
she  going  alone  or  with  Jack  Reddy?  My 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  window  and  I  saw, 
without  noticing  particular,  the  down  train 
from  the  city  draw  into  the  station,  and  then 
Jim  Donahue  run  along  the  platform  swing- 
ing a  lantern.  As  if  I  was  in  a  dream  I  could 
hear  Anne: 

"I  call  it  an  unjust  will — only  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  to  his  wife  and  five  millions 
to  his  daughter.  But  if  Sylvia  dies  first,  all 
the  money  goes  back  to  Mrs.  Fowler." 

48 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

The  train  pulled  out,  snorting  like  a  big  ani- 
mal. Jim  disappeared,  then  presently  I  saw 
him  open  the  depot  door  and  come  slouching 
across  the  street.  I  knew  he  was  headed  for 
the  Exchange,  thinking  Minnie  Trail  was 
there,  he  being  a  widower  with  a  crush  on  Min- 
nie. 

He  came  in  and,  after  he'd  got  over  the 
shock  of  seeing  me,  turned  to  Anne  and 
said: 

"I  just  been  putting  your  young  lady  on 
the  train." 

Anne  gave  a  start  and  stared  at  him. 

"Miss  Sylvia?"  she  said. 

"That's  her,"  said  Jim,  warming  his  coat 
tails  at  the  radiator. 

I  could  see  Anne  was  awful  surprised  and 
was  trying  to  hide  it. 

"Who  was  she  with?"  she  asked. 

"No  one.  She  went  up  alone  and  said  she 
was  going  to  be  away  for  a  few  days.  Where's 
she  going?" 

Anne  gave  me  a  look  that  said,  "Keep  your 
49 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

mouth  shut,"  and  turned  quiet  and  innocent 
to  Jim.  "Just  for  a  visit  to  friends.  She's 
always  visiting  people  in  New  York  and  Phil- 
adelphia." 

Jim  stayed  round  a  while  gabbing  with  us, 
and  then  went  back  to  the  station.  When  the 
door  shut  on  him  we  stared  at  each  other  with 
our  eyes  as  round  as  marbles. 

"Oh,  Molly,"  Anne  said,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per, "it's  just  what  I've  been  afraid  of." 

"You  think  she's  lighting  out?" 

"Yes — don't  you  see,  the  Doctor  being  at 
the  Dalzells'  has  given  her  the  chance." 

"Where  would  she  go  to?" 

"How  do  I  know?  Heaven  send  she  hasn't 
done  anything  foolish.  But  this  morning  she 
sent  Virginie,  that  French  woman,  up  to  the 
village  for  something — on  Sunday  when  all 
the  shops  are  shut.  The  housemaid  told  me 
they'd  been  trying  to  find  out  what  it  was  and 
Virginie  wouldn't  tell.  Oh,  dear,  could  she 
have  gone  off  with  someone?" 

We  were  talking  it  over  in  low  voices  when 
50 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

a  call  came.  It  was  from  Mapleshade  to  the 
Dalzells'.  As  I  made  the  connection  I  whis- 
pered to  Anne  what  it  was  and  she  whispered 
back,  "Listen." 

I  did.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Fowler,  all  breath- 
less and  almost  crying.  She  asked  for  the  Doc- 
tor and  when  he  came  burst  out: 

"Oh,  Dan,  something's  happened — some- 
thing dreadful.  Sylvia's  run  away." 

I  could  hear  the  Doctor's  voice,  small  and 
distant  but  quite  clear: 

"Go  slow  now,  Connie,  it's  hard  to  hear 
you.  Did  you  say  Sylvia  d  run  away?" 

Then  Mrs.  Fowler  said,  trying  to  speak 
slower : 

"Yes,  with  Jack  Reddy.  We've  been  hunt- 
ing for  her  and  we've  just  found  a  letter  from 
him  in  her  desk.  Do  you  hear — her  desk,  in 
the  top  drawer?  It  told  her  to  meet  him  at 
seven  in  the  Lane  and  go  with  him  in  his  car 
to  Bloomington." 

"Bloomington?  That's  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  off." 

51 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"I  can't  help  how  far  off  it  is.  That's  where 
the  letter  said  he  was  going  to  take  her.  It 
said  they'd  go  by  the  turnpike  to  Blooming- 
ton  and  be  married  there.  And  we  can't  find 
Virginie — they've  evidently  taken  her  with 
them." 

"I  see — by  the  turnpike,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes.  Can't  you  go  up  there  and  meet 
them  and  bring  her  back?" 

"Yes — keep  cool  now,  I'll  head  them  off. 
What  time  did  you  say  they  left?" 

"The  letter  said  he'd  meet  her  in  the  Lane 
at  seven  and  it's  a  little  after  eight  now.  Have 
you  time  to  get  up  there  and  catch  them?" 

"Time? — to  burn.  On  a  night  like  this 
Reddy  can't  get  round  to  the  part  of  the  f  ike 
where  I'll  strike  it  under  three  and  a  half  to 
four  hours." 

"But  can  you  go — can  you  leave  your 
case?" 

"Yes — Dalzell's  improving.  Graham  can 
attend  to  it.  Now  don't  get  excited,  I'll  have 
her  back  some  time  to-night.  And  not  a  word 

52 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL1 

to  anybody.  We  don't  want  this  to  get  about. 
We'll  have  to  shut  the  mouth  of  that  fool  of 
a  French  woman,  but  I'll  see  to  that  later. 
Don't  see  anyone.  Go  to  your  room  and  say 
nothing." 

Just  as  the  message  was  finished  Minnie 
Trail  came  in.  I  made  the  record  of  it  and 
then  got  up  asking  her,  as  natural  as  you 
please,  how  she  felt.  Anne  did  the  same  and 
you'd  never  have  thought  to  hear  us  sympa- 
thizing with  her  that  we  were  just  bursting  to 
get  outside. 

When  we  did  we  walked  slow  down  the 
street,  me  telling  her  what  I'd  heard.  All  the 
time  I  was  speaking  I  was  thinking  of  Syl- 
via and  Jack  Reddy  tearing  away  through  that 
still,  black  night,  flying  along  the  pale  line 
of  the  road,  flashing  past  the  lights  of  farms 
and  country  houses,  swinging  down  between 
the  rolling  hills  and  out  by  the  open  fields,  till 
they'd  see  the  glow  of  Bloomington  low  down 
in  the  sky. 

It  was  Anne  who  brought  me  back  to  where 
53 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I  was.     She  suddenly  stopped  short,  staring 
in  front  of  her  and  then  turned  to  me: 

"Why,  how  can  she  be  eloping  with  Reddy 
by  the  turnpike  when  Jim  Donahue  saw  her 
get  on  the  train?" 


IV 

\\  7"  HEN  I  come  to  the  next  day  I  can't 
*  *  make  my  story  plain  if  I  only  tell  what 
I  saw  and  heard.  I  didn't  even  pick  up  the 
most  important  message  in  the  tragedy.  It 
came  at  half-past  nine  that  night  through  the 
Corona  Exchange  and  was  sent  from  a  pay 
station  so  there  was  no  record  of  it,  only  Jack 
Reddy's  word — but  I'm  going  too  fast;  that 
belongs  later. 

What  I've  got  to  do  is  to  piece  things  to- 
gether as  I  got  them  from  the  gossip  in  the 
village,  from  the  inquest,  and  from  the  New 
York  papers.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  remem- 
ber that  I'm  up  against  a  stunt  that's  new 
to  me  and  that  I'm  trying  to  get  it  over  as 
clear  as  I  can. 

The  best  way  is  for  me  to  put  down  first 
Sylvia's  movements  on  that  tragic  Sunday. 

55 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

About  five  in  the  afternoon  Sylvia  and  Mrs. 
Fowler  had  ten  in  the  library.  When  that  was 
over — about  half-past — Sylvia  went  away, 
saying  she  was  going  to  her  room  to  write  let- 
ters, and  her  mother  retired  to  hers  for  the 
nap  she  always  took  before  dinner.  What 
happened  between  then  and  the  time  when 
Mrs.  Fowler  sent  the  message  to  the  Doctor  I 
heard  from  Anne  Hennessey.  It  was  this 
way: 

They  had  dinner  late  at  Mapleshade — half- 
past  seven — and  when  Sylvia  didn't  come 
down  Mrs.  Fowler  sent  up  Harper  to  call  her. 
He  came  back  saying  she  wasn't  in  her  room, 
and  Mrs.  Fowler,  getting  uneasy,  went  up  her- 
self, sending  Harper  to  find  Virginie  Du- 
pont.  It  wasn't  long  before  they  discovered 
that  neither  Sylvia  nor  Virginie  were  in  th^ 
house. 

When  she  realized  this  Mrs.  Fowler  was 
terribly  upset.  Sylvia's  room  was  in  con- 
fusion, the  bureau  drawers  pulled  out,  the 
closet  doors  open.  Anne  not  being  there,  Har- 

56 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

per,  who  was  scared  at  Mrs.  Fowler's  excite- 
ment, called  Nora  Magee,  the  chambermaid. 
She  was  a  smart  girl  and  saw  pretty  quickly 
that  Sylvia  had  evidently  left.  The  toilet 
things  were  gone  from  the  dresser;  the  jewelry 
case  was  open  and  empty,  only  for  a  few  old 
pieces  of  no  great  value.  It  was  part  of 
Nora's  job  to  do  up  the  room  and  she  knew 
where  Sylvia's  Hudson  seal  coat  hung  in  one 
of  the  closets.  A  glance  showed  her  that  was 
gone,  also  a  gold-fitted  bag  that  the  Doctor 
had  given  his  stepdaughter  on  her  birthday. 

All  the  servants  knew  of  the  quarreling  and 
its  cause  and  while  Mrs.  Fowler  was  moan- 
ing and  hunting  about  helplessly,  Nora  went 
to  the  desk  and  opened  it.  There,  lying  care- 
less as  if  it  had  been  thrown  in  in  a  hurry,  was 
Jack  Reddy's  letter.  She  gave  a  glance  at  it 
and  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Fowler.  With  the  let- 
ter in  her  hand  Mrs.  Fowler  ran  downstairs 
and  telephoned  to  the  Doctor. 

The  poor  lady  was  in  a  terrible  way  and 
when  Anne  got  back  she  had  to  sit  with  her, 

57 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

trying  to  quiet  her  till  the  Doctor  came  back. 
That  wasn't  till  nearly  two  in  the  morning, 
when  he  reached  home,  dead  beat,  saying  he'd 
come  round  the  turnpike  from  the  Riven  Rock 
Road  and  seen  no  sign  of  either  Sylvia  or 
Jack  Reddy. 

No  one  at  Malpeshade  saw  Sylvia  leave  the 
house,  no  one  in  Longwood  saw  her  pass 
through  the  village,  yet,  two  and  a  half  hours 
from  the  time  she  had  made  the  date  with  Mr. 
Reddy,  she  was  seen  again,  over  a  hundred 
miles  from  her  home,  in  the  last  place  any- 
one would  have  expected  to  find  her. 

Way  up  on  the  turnpike,  two  miles  from 
Cresset's  Crossing,  there's  a  sort  of  roadhouse 
where  the  farm  hands  spend  their  evenings 
and  automobilists  stop  for  drinks  and  gasoline. 
It's  got  a  shady  reputation,  being  frequented 
by  a  rough  class  of  people  and  once  there  was 
a  dago — a  laborer  on  Cresset's  Farm — killed 
there  in  a  drunken  row.  It's  called  the  Way- 
side Arbor,  which  doesn't  fit,  sounding 
innocent  and  rural,  though  in  the  back 

58 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

there  is  a  trellis  with  grapes  growing  over 
it  and  tables  set  out  under  it  in  warm 
weather. 

At  this  season  it's  a  dreary  looking  spot, 
an  old  frame  cottage  a  few  yards  back  from 
the  road,  with  a  broken-down  piazza  and  a 
door  painted  green  leading  into  the  bar. 
Along  the  top  of  the  piazza  goes  the  sign 
"Wayside  Arbor,"  with  advertisements  for 
some  kind  of  beer  at  each  end  of  it,  and  in 
the  window  there's  more  advertisements  for 
whisky  and  crackers  and  soft  drinks.  Nailed 
to  one  of  the  piazza  posts  is  a  public  tele- 
phone sign  standing  out  very  prominent. 

At  the  time  of  the  Hesketh  mystery  I'd 
only  seen  it  once,  one  day  in  the  summer  when 
I  was  out  in  a  hired  car  with  Mrs.  Galway 
and  two  gentlemen  friends  from  New  York. 
We'd  been  to  Bloomington  by  train  and  were 
motoring  back  and  stopped  to  get  some  beer. 
But  we  ladies,  not  liking  the  looks  of  the  place, 
wouldn't  go  in  and  had  our  beer  brought  out 
to  us  by  the  proprietor,  Jake  Hines,  a  tough- 

59 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

looking  customer  in  a  shirt  without  a  collar 
and  one  of  his  suspenders  broken. 

It's  very  lonesome  round  there.  The  near- 
est house  is  Cresset's,  a  half  mile  away  across 
the  fields.  Back  of  it  and  all  round  is  Cresset's 
land,  some  of  it  planted  in  crops  and  then 
strips  of  woods,  making  the  country  in  sum- 
mer look  lovely  with  the  dark  and  the  light 
green. 

Sunday  evening  there  were  only  two  peo- 
ple in  the  Wayside  Arbor  bar,  Hines  and  his 
servant,  Tecla  Rabine,  a  Bohemian  woman. 
Mrs.  Hines  was  upstairs  in  the  room  above 
in  bed  with  a  cold.  There  was  a  fire  burn- 
ing in  the  stove,  as  a  good  many  of  Hines's 
customers  were  the  dagoes  that  work  at  Cres- 
set's and  the  other  farms  and  they  liked  the 
place  warm.  Hines  was  reading  the  paper 
and  Tecla  Rabine  was  cleaning  up  the  bar 
before  she  went  upstairs,  she  having  a  tooth- 
ache and  wanting  to  get  off  to  bed. 

At  the  inquest  Hines  swore  that  he  heard 
no  sound  of  a  car  or  of  wheels — which,  he 

60 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

said,  he  would  have  noticed,  as  that  generally 
meant  business — when  there  was  a  step  on 
the  piazza,  the  door  opened  and  a  lady  came 
in.  He  didn't  know  who  she  was  but  saw 
right  off  she  wasn't  the  kind  that  you'd  ex- 
pect to  see  in  his  place.  She  had  on  a  long 
dark  fur  coat,  a  close-fitting  plush  hat  with 
a  Shetland  veil  pushed  up  round  the  brim,  and 
looked  pale,  and,  he  thought,  scared.  It  was 
Sylvia  Hesketh,  but  he  didn't  know  that  till 
afterward. 

She  asked  him  right  off  if  she  could  use  his 
telephone  and  he  pointed  to  the  booth  in  the 
corner.  She  went  in  and  closed  the  door  and 
Hines  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
to  see  if  there  was  a  car  or  a  carriage  that 
he  hadn't  heard,  the  mud  making  the  road  soft. 
But  there  was  nothing  there.  Before  he  was 
through  looking  he  heard  the  booth  door  open 
and  turning  back  saw  her  come  out.  He  said 
she  wasn't  five  minutes  sending  her  message. 

That  telephone  message  was  the  most  mys- 
terious one  in  the  case.  It  was  transmitted 

61 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

through  the  Corona  Exchange  to  Firehill  and 
there  was  no  one  in  the  world  who  heard  it 
but  Jack  Reddy.  I'm  going  to  put  it  down 
here,  copied  from  the  newspaper  reports  of 
the  inquest: 

Oh,  Jack,  is  that  you?  It's  Sylvia.  Thank  Heav- 
ens you're  there.  I'm  in  trouble,  I  want  you.  I've 
done  something  dreadful.  I'll  tell  you  when  I  see 
you.  I'll  explain  everything  and  you  won't  be  angry. 
Come  and  get  me — start  now,  this  minute.  Come  up 
the  Firehill  Road  to  the  Turnpike  and  I'll  be  there 
waiting,  where  the  roads  meet.  Don't  ask  any  ques- 
tions now.  When  you  hear  you'll  understand.  And 
don't  let  anyone  know — the  servants  or  anyone. 
You've  got  to  keep  it  quiet,  it's  vitally  important, 
for  my  sake.  Come,  come  quick. 

That  was  all.  Before  he  could  ask  her  a 
question  she'd  disconnected.  And,  naturally, 
he  made  no  effort  to  find  out  where  the  call 
had  come  from,  being  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
to  her — Sylvia  who  was  in  trouble  and  wanted 
him  to  come. 

When  she  came  out  of  the  booth  she  car- 
ried a  small  purse  in  her  hand  and  Hines  then 
noticed  that  she  had  only  one  glove  on — the 

62 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

left — and  that  her  right  hand  was  scratched 
in  several  places.  Thinking  she  looked  cold 
he  asked  her  if  she  would  have  something  to 
drink  and  she  said  no,  then  pushed  back  her 
cuff  and  looked  at  a  bracelet  watch  set  in  dia- 
monds and  sapphires  that  she  wore  on  her 
wrist. 

"Twenty  minutes  to  ten,'*  she  said.  "I'll 
wait  here  for  a  little  while  if  you  don't  mind." 

She  went  over  to  the  stove,  pulled  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down,  spreading  her  hands  out  to  the 
heat,  and  when  they  were  warm,  opening  her 
coat  collar,  and  turning  it  back  from  her  neck. 
Both  Hines  and  Tecla  Rabine  noticed  that  her 
feet  were  muddy  and  that  there  were  twigs 
and  dead  leaves  caught  in  the  edge  of  her 
skirt.  As  she  didn't  seem  inclined  to  say  any- 
thing, Hines,  who  admitted  that  he  was  ready 
to  burst  with  curiosity,  began  to  question  her, 
trying  to  find  out  where  she'd  come  from  and 
what  she  was  waiting  for. 

"You  come  a  long  way,  I  guess,"  he  said. 

She  just  nodded. 

63 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"From  Bloomington  maybe?"  he  asked. 

"No,  the  other  direction — toward  Long- 
wood." 

"Car  broken  down?"  he  said  next,  and  she 
answered  sort  of  indifferent, 

"Yes,  it's  down  the  road." 

"Maybe  I  might  go  and  lend  a  hand,"  he 
suggested  and  she  answered  quick  to  that: 

"No,  it's  not  necessary.  They  can  fix  it 
themselves,"  then  she  added,  after  a  minute, 
"I've  telephoned  for  someone  to  come  for 
me  and  if  the  car's  really  broken  we  can  tow 
it  back." 

That  seemed  so  straight  and  natural  that 
Hines  began  to  get  less  curious,  still  he  wanted 
to  know  who  she  was  and  tried  to  find  out. 

"You  come  a  long  ride  if  you  come  from 
Longwood,"  he  said. 

But  he  didn't  get  any  satisfaction,  for  she 
answered : 

"Is  it  a  long  way  there?" 

"About  a  hundred  and  eighteen  miles  by  the 
turnpike — a  good  bit  shorter  by  the  Firehill 

64 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Road,  but  that's  pretty  bad  after  these 
rains." 

"Most  of  the  roads  are  bad,  I  suppose,"  she 
said,  as  if  she  wasn't  thinking  of  her  words. 

They  were  silent  for  a  bit,  then  he  tried 
again: 

"What's  broke  in  your  auto?" 

And  she  answered  that  sharp  as  if  he  an- 
noyed her  and  she  was  setting  him  back  in 
his  place: 

"My  good  man,  I  haven't  the  least  idea. 
That's  the  chauffeur's  business,  not  mine." 

He  asked  her  some  more  questions  but  he 
couldn't  get  anything  out  of  her.  He  said 
she  treated  him  sort  of  haughty  as  if  she  want- 
ed him  to  stop.  So  after  a  while  he  said  no 
more,  but  sat  by  the  bar  pretending  to  read 
his  paper.  Tecla  Rabine  came  and  went,  tidy- 
ing up  for  the  night  and  none  of  them  said  a 
word. 

A  little  before  ten  she  got  up  and  buttoned 
her  coat,  saying  she  was  going.  Hines  was 
surprised  and  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't  wait 

65 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

there  for  the  auto,  and  she  said  no,  she'd  walk 
up  the  road  and  meet  it. 

He  asked  her  which  way  it  was  coming  and 
she  said:  "By  the  Firehill  Road.  How  far  is 
that  from  here?" 

He  told  her  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and 
she  answered  that  she'd  just  about  time  to  get 
there  and  catch  it  as  it  came  into  the  turnpike. 

Hines  urged  her  to  stay  but  she  said  no, 
she  was  cramped  with  sitting  and  needed  a  lit- 
tle walk;  it  was  early  yet  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  afraid  of.  She  bid  him  good  night 
very  cordial  and  pleasant  and  went  out. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  her  as 
far  as  he  could  see,  then  told  Tecla,  whose 
toothache  was  bad,  to  go  to  bed.  After  she'd 
gone  he  locked  up,  went  upstairs  to  his  wife 
and  told  her  about  the  strange  lady.  His  wife 
said  he'd  done  wrong  to  let  her  go,  it  wasn't 
right  for  a  person  like  that  to  be  alone  on 
such  a  solitary  road,  especially  with  some  of 
the  farm  hands,  queer  foreigners,  no  better 
than  animals. 

66 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

She  worked  upon  his  feelings  till  she  got 
him  nervous  and  he  was  going  to  get  a  lan- 
tern and  start  out  when  he  heard  the  sound 
of  an  auto  horn  in  the  distance.  He  stepped  to 
the  window  and  watched  and  presently  saw  a 
big  car  with  one  lamp  dark  coming  at  a  great 
clip  down  from  the  Firehill  Road  direction. 
The  moon  had  come  out  a  short  while  before, 
so  that  if  he'd  looked  he  could  have  seen  the 
people  in  the  car,  but  supposing  it  was  the 
one  the  lady  was  waiting  for,  he  turned  from 
the  window,  and,  thinking  no  more  about  it, 
went  to  bed. 

Before  he  was  off  to  sleep  he  heard  another 
auto  horn  and  the  whirr  of  a  car  passing.  He 
couldn't  say  how  long  after  this  was,  as  he 
was  half  asleep. 

How  long  he'd  slept  he  didn't  know — it 
really  was  between  four  and  five  in  the  morn- 
ing— when  he  was  roused  by  a  great  battering 
at  the  door  and  a  sound  of  voices.  He  jumped 
up  just  as  he  was,  ran  to  the  window  and 
opened  it.  There  in  the  road  he  could  see 

67 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

plain — the  clouds  were  gone,  the  moon  sailing 
clear  and  high — a  motor  and  some  people  all 
talking  very  excited,  and  one  voice,  a  woman's, 
saying  over  and  over,  "Oh,  how  horrible — how 
horrible!" 

He  took  them  for  a  party  of  merry-makers, 
half  drunk  and  wanting  more,  and  called  down 
fierce  and  savage: 

"What  in  thunder  are  you  doing  there?" 

One  of  them,  a  man  standing  on  the 
steps  of  the  piazza,  looked  up  at  him  and 
said: 

"There's  a  murdered  woman  up  the  road 
here,  that's  all." 

As  he  ran  to  the  place  with  the  men — there 
were  two  of  them — they  told  him  how  they 
were  on  a  motor  trip  with  their  wives  and  that 
night  were  going  from  Bloomington  to  Hunt- 
ley.  The  moon  being  so  fine  they  were  going 
slow,  otherwise  they  never  would  have  found 
the  body,  which  was  lying  by  the  roadside.  A 
pile  of  brushwood  had  been  thrown  over  it, 
but  one  hand  had  fallen  out  beyond  the 

68 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

branches  and  one  of  the  women  had  seen  it, 
white  in  the  moonlight. 

They  had  unfastened  an  auto  lamp  and  it 
was  standing  on  the  ground  beside  her.  Hines 
lifted  it  and  looked  at  her.  She  lay  partly 
on  her  side,  her  coat  loosely  drawn  round  her. 
The  right  arm  was  flung  out  as  if  when  the 
body  stiffened  it  might  have  slipped  down 
from  a  position  across  the  chest.  As  he  held 
the  lantern  close  he  saw  below  the  hat,  pulled 
down  on  her  head,  with  the  torn  rags  of  veil 
still  clinging  to  it,  a  thin  line  of  blood  run- 
ning down  to  where  the  pearl  necklace  rested, 
untouched,  round  her  throat. 

It  was  Sylvia  Hesketh,  her  skull  fractured 
by  a  blow  that  had  cracked  her  head  like  an 
egg  shell. 


rr^HERE  were  so  many  puzzling  "leads" 
•••  and  so  much  that  was  inexplicable  and 
mysterious  in  the  Hesketh  case  that  it'll  be 
easier  to  follow  if,  in  this  chapter,  I  put  down 
what  the  other  people,  who  were  either  sus- 
pects or  important  witnesses,  did  on  that  Sun- 
day. 

Some  of  it  may  not  be  interesting,  but  it's 
necessary  to  know  if  you're  going  to  get  a 
clear  understanding  of  a  case  that  baffled  the 
police  and  pretty  nearly  .  .  .  There  I  go 
again.  But  it's  awfully  hard  when  you're  not 
used  to  it  to  keep  things  in  their  right  order. 

I've  told  how  Jim  Donahue  said  he  put  Syl- 
via on  the  train  for  the  Junction  that  night  at 
seven-thirty.  Both  Jim  and  the  ticket  agent 
said  they'd  seen  her  and  Jim  had  spoken  to 

70 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

her.  She  carried  a  hand  bag,  wore  a  long  dark 
fur  coat  and  a  small  close-fitting  hat  that 
showed  her  hair.  Both  men  also  noticed  in  her 
hand  the  gold  mesh  purse  with  a  diamond  mon- 
ogram that  she  always  carried.  Over  her  face 
was  tied  a  black  figured  veil  that  hid  her  fea- 
tures, but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  hair, 
the  voice,  or  the  gold  mesh  purse. 

Sands,  the  Pullman  conductor,  said  this 
same  woman  rode  down  in  his  train  to  the 
Junction,  where  she  got  off.  Clark,  the  station 
agent  at  the  Junction,  saw  her  step  from  the 
car  to  the  platform.  After  that  he  lost  track 
of  her  as  he  was  busy  with  the  branch  line 
train  which  left  at  eight- forty-five  and  was 
the  last  one  up  that  night.  No  woman  went 
on  it,  there  were  only  two  passengers,  both 
men. 

The  Doctor  didn't  make  his  whole  story 
public  till  the  inquest.  They  said  afterward 
the  police  knew  it,  but  it  was  his  policy  to  say 
little  and  keep  quiet  in  Mapleshade.  What 
we  in  the  village  did  know — partly  from  the 

71 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

papers,  partly  from  people — was  that  after 
the  message  from  Mrs.  Fowler  saying  Syl- 
via had  eloped,  he  told  Mrs.  Dalzell  he  would 
have  to  leave,  having  been  called  away  to  an 
important  case.  When  the  Dalzells'  chauffeur 
brought  his  car  round  he  asked  the  man  sev- 
eral questions  about  the  shortest  way  to  get 
to  the  turnpike.  The  chauffeur  told  him 
that  the  best  traveling  would  be  by  the  Riven 
Rock  Road,  which  he  would  have  to  go 
to  the  Junction  to  get.  The  Doctor  left  the 
Dalzells'  at  a  little  after  eight,  alone  in  his 
car. 

He  reached  the  Junction  about  eight-thirty- 
five,  a  few  minutes  after  the  train  from  Long- 
wood  had  arrived.  On  the  platform  he  spoke 
to  Clark,  asking  him  how  to  get  to  the  Riven 
Rock  Road.  Clark  gave  him  the  directions, 
then  saw  him  disappear  round  the  station 
building.  Neither  Clark  nor  anyone  at  the 
Junction — there  were  very  few  there  at  that 
hour — saw  him  leave  in  his  car,  though  they 
heard  the  honk  of  the  auto  horn. 

72 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

But  it  was  Jack  Reddy's  movements  that 
everybody  was  most  interested  in.  There  was 
no  secret  about  them. 

Sunday  at  lunch  he  told  Gilsey  that  he  was 
going1  away  for  a  trip  for  a  few  days.  If  he 
stayed  longer  than  he  expected  he'd  wire  back 
for  his  things,  but,  as  it  was,  he'd  only  want 
his  small  auto  trunk,  which  he'd  take  with  him. 
When  Mrs.  Gilsey  was  packing  this  he  joked 
her  about  having  a  good  time  while  he  was 
gone,  and  she  told  him  that,  as  there'd  be  no 
dinner  that  night,  she  and  Gilsey'd  go  over 
to  a  neighbor's,  take  supper  there  and  spend 
the  evening.  After  that  he  asked  Casey,  the 
chauffeur,  to  have  the  racing  car  brought 
round  at  five,  to  see  that  the  tank  was  full,  a 
foot-warmer  in  it  and  the  heaviest  rugs  and 
a  drum  of  gasoline,  as  he  was  going  on  a  long 
trip. 

At  five  he  left  Firehill  in  the  racer.  At  a 
quarter  to  seven  two  boys  saw  him  pass  the 
Longwood  Station  in  the  direction  of  Maple 
Lane.  He  said  he  came  back  through  the  out- 

78 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

skirts  of  the  village  at  seven-thirty,  but  no  one 
could  be  found  who  had  seen  him. 

After  he  left  Firehill  the  Gilseys  cleared 
up  and  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  Jaycocks' 
farm,  where  they  spent  the  evening,  coming 
home  at  ten  and  finding  the  house  dark  and 
quiet.  Casey  went  to  another  neighbor's, 
where  he  stayed  till  midnight,  playing  cards. 

He  slept  over  the  garage,  and  about  four 
in  the  morning — he  looked  at  his  watch  after- 
ward— was  awakened  by  a  sound  down  below 
in  the  garage.  He  listened  and  made  sure  that 
someone  was  trying  to  roll  the  doors  back  very 
slow  and  with  as  little  noise  as  possible.  Ca- 
sey's a  bold,  nervy  boy,  and  he  reached  for  his 
revolver  and  crept  barefooted  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs.  On  the  top  step  he  stooped  down 
and  looked  through  the  banisters,  and  saw 
against  the  big  square  of  the  open  doors  a  man 
standing,  with  a  car  behind  him  shining  in 
the  moonlight. 

He  thought  it  was  a  burglar,  so,  with  his 
revolver  up  and  ready,  he  called: 

74 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"Hello,  there.    What  are  you  doing?" 

The  man  gave  a  great  start,  and  then  he 
heard  Mr.  Reddy's  voice: 

"Oh,  Casey,  did  I  wake  you?  I've  come 
back  unexpectedly.  Help  me  get  this  car  in." 

They  ran  the  car  in,  and,  when  Casey  went 
to  tell  how  he  thought  it  was  a  burglar  and 
was  going  to  shoot,  he  noticed  that  Mr.  Reddy 
hardly  listened  to  him,  but  was  gruff  and 
short.  All  he  said  was  that  he'd  changed  his 
mind  about  the  trip,  and  then  unstrapped  his 
trunk  from  the  back  and  turned  to  go.  In  the 
doorway  he  stopped  as  if  he'd  had  a  sudden 
thought,  and  said  over  his  shoulder: 

"You  don't  want  to  mention  this  in  Long- 
wood.  I'm  getting  a  little  sick  of  the  gossip 
there  over  my  affairs." 

Casey  went  back  to  bed  and  in  the  morning, 
when  he  looked  at  the  car,  found  it  was  caked 
with  mud,  even  the  wind-guard  spattered.  At 
seven  he  crossed  over  to  the  house  for  his 
breakfast  and  told  the  Gilseys  that  Mr.  Reddy 
was  back.  They  were  surprised,  but  de- 

75 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

cided,  as  he'd  been  out  so  late,  they'd  not 
disturb  him  till  he  rang  for  his  break- 
fast. 

Monday  morning  was  clear  and  sharp,  the 
first  real  frost  of  the  season.  All  the  time  I 
was  dressing  I  was  thinking  about  the  elope- 
ment and  how  queer  it  was  Mrs.  Fowler  saying 
they'd  gone  by  turnpike  and  Jim  Donahue 
saying  he'd  seen  Sylvia  leave  on  the  train.  I 
worked  it  out  that  they'd  made  some  change 
of  plans  at  the  last  moment.  But  the  way 
they'd  eloped  didn't  matter  to  me.  Small 
things  like  that  didn't  cut  any  ice  when  I  was 
all  tormented  wondering  if  it  was  for  the  best 
that  my  hero  should  marry  a  wild  girl  who  no 
one  could  control. 

I  hadn't  been  long  at  the  switchboard,  and 
was  sitting  sideways  in  my  chair  looking  out 
of  the  window  when  I  saw  Dr.  Fowler's  auto 
drive  up  with  the  Doctor  and  a  strange  man 
in  it.  I  twirled  round  quick  and  was  the  busi- 
ness-like operator.  I'll  bet  no  one  would  have 
thought  that  the  girl  sitting  so  calm  and  in- 

76 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

different  in  that  swivel  chair  was  just  boiling 
with  excitement  and  curiosity. 

The  Doctor  looked  bad,  yellow  as  wax,  with 
his  eyes  sunk  and  inflamed.  He  didn't  take 
any  notice  of  me  beside  a  fierce  sort  of  look 
and  a  gruff, 

"Give  me  Corona  1-4-2." 

That  was  Firehill.  I  jacked  in  and  the  Doc- 
tor went  into  the  booth  and  shut  the  door. 
The  strange  man  stood  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  looking  out  of  the  window.  I  didn't  know 
then  that  he  was  a  detective,  and  I  don't  think 
anyone  ever  would  have  guessed  it.  If  you'd 
asked  me  I'd  have  said  he  looked  more  like  a 
clerk  at  the  ribbon  counter.  But  that's  what 
he  was,  Walter  Mills  by  name,  engaged  that 
morning,  as  we  afterward  knew,  by  the 
Doctor. 

Watching  him  with  one  eye  I  leaned  for- 
ward very  cautiously,  lifted  up  the  cam  and 
listened  in  on  the  conversation: 

"Is  this  Gilsey?" 

Then  Gilsey's  nice  old  voice, 
77 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"Yes,  sir.    Who  is  it?" 

The  Doctor's  was  quick  and  hard: 

"Never  mind  that — it  doesn't  matter.  Do 
you  happen  to  know  where  Mr.  Reddy  is?" 

My  heart  gave  a  big  jump — he  hadn't 
caught  them !  They'd  got  away  and  been  mar- 
ried! 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Reddy's  here." 

There  was  just  a  minute's  pause  before  the 
Doctor  answered.  In  that  minute  all  sorts  of 
ideas  went  flashing  through  my  head  the  way 
they  say  you  see  things  before  you  drown. 
Then  came  the  Doctor's  voice  with  a  curious 
sort  of  quietness  in  it. 

"There,  at  Firehill?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Can  I  take  any  message?  Mr. 
Reddy  was  out  very  late  last  night  and  isn't 
up  yet." 

The  Doctor  answered  that  very  cordially, 
all  the  hurry  and  hardness  gone. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I'll  not  disturb  him. 
No,  I  won't  bother  with  a  message.  I'll  call 
up  later.  Thanks  very  much.  Good-bye." 

78 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

I  dropped  back  in  my  chair,  tapping  with  a 
pencil  on  the  corner  of  the  drawer  and  look- 
ing sideways  at  the  Doctor  as  he  came  out  of 
the  booth.  He  had  a  queer  look,  his  eyes  keen 
and  bright,  and  there  was  some  color  in  his 
face.  The  strange  man  turned  round,  and  the 
Doctor  gave  him  a  glance  sharp  as  a  razor,  but 
all  he  said  was:  "Come  on,  Mills,"  and  they 
went  out  and  mounted  into  the  car. 

When  the  door  banged  on  them  I  drew  a 
deep  breath  and  flattened  out  against  the  chair 
back.  They  hadn't  eloped! 

Gee,  it  was  a  relief!  Not  because  of  myself. 
Honest  to  God,  that's  straight.  I  knew  I 
couldn't  have  him  any  more  than  I  could  have 
had  the  Kohinoor  diamond.  It  was  because  I 
knew — deep  down  where  you  feel  the  truth — 
that  Sylvia  Hesketh  wasn't  the  girl  for  him  to 
marry. 

That  was  about  half-past  eight.  It  was  af- 
ter ten  when  a  message  came  for  Mapleshade 
that  made  the  world  turn  upside  down  and 
left  me  white  and  sick.  It  was  from  the  Coro- 

79 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

ner  and  said  that  Sylvia  Hesketh  had  been 
found  that  morning  on  the  turnpike,  mur- 
dered. 

Poor  Mrs.  Fowler  took  it! 

Anne  Hennessey  told  me  afterward  that  she 
heard  her  scream  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
I  heard  it,  too,  and  it  raised  my  hair — and  then 
a  lot  of  words  coming  thin  and  shrill  along  the 
wire.  "Sylvia,  my  daughter — dead — mur- 
dered?" It  was  awful,  I  hate  to  think  of  it. 

Nora  and  Anne  ran  at  the  sound  and  found 
Mrs.  Fowler  all  wild  and  screaming,  with  the 
receiver  hanging  down.  I  could  hear  them,  a 
babble  of  tiny  little  voices  as  if  I  had  a  line  on 
some  part  of  Purgatory  where  the  spiritr  were 
crying  and  wailing. 

Suddenly  it  stopped — somebody  had  hung 
up.  I  waited,  shaking  there  like  a  leaf  and 
feeling  like  I'd  a  blow  in  the  stomach  Then 
Mapleshade  called  and  I  heard  Anne's  voice, 
distinct  but  broken  as  if  she'd  been  running. 

"Molly,  is  that  you?  Do  you  by  any  chance 
know  if  the  Doctor's  in  the  village?" 

80 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"He  was  here  a  little  while  ago  with  a  man 
calling  up  Firehill.  Anne,  I  heard — it  can't 
be  true." 

"Oh,  it  is — it  is — I  can't  talk  now.  I've  got 
to  find  him.  Give  me  Firehill.  He  may  have 
gone  there.  Quick,  for  God's  sake!" 

I  gave  it  and  heard  her  tell  a  man  at  the 
other  end  of  the  line. 

I'll  go  on  from  here  and  tell  what  happened 
at  Firehill.  I've  pieced  it  out  from  the  testi- 
mony at  the  inquest  and  from  what  the  Gil- 
seys  afterward  told  in  the  village. 

The  Doctor  and  Mills  went  straight  out 
there  from  the  Exchange.  When  they  arrived 
Gilsey  told  him  Mr.  Reddy  wasn't  up  yet, 
but  he'd  call  him.  The  Doctor,  however,  said 
the  matter  was  urgent  and  they  couldn't  lose 
a  minute,  so  the  three  of  them  went  upstairs 
together  and  Gilsey  knocked  at  the  door.  Af- 
ter he'd  knocked  twice  a  sleepy  voice  called 
out,  "Come  in,"  and  Gilsey  opened  the 
door. 

It  led  into  a  sitting-room  with  a  bedroom 
81 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

opening  off  it.  On  a  sofa  just  opposite  the 
door  was  Jack  Reddy,  dressed  and  stretched 
out  as  if  he'd  been  asleep. 

At  first  he  saw  no  one  but  Gilsey  and  sat  up 
with  a  start,  saying  sharply: 

"What's  the  matter?  Does  anyone  want 
me?" 

Gilsey  said,  "Yes,  two  gentlemen  to  see 
you,"  and  stepped  to  one  side  to  let  the  Doctor 
and  Mills  enter. 

When  Reddy  saw  the  Doctor  he  jumped  to 
his  feet  and  stood  looking  at  him.  He  didn't 
say  "Good  morning"  or  any  sort  of  greeting, 
but  was  silent,  as  if  he  was  holding  himself 
still,  waiting  to  hear  what  the  Doctor  was  go- 
ing to  say. 

He  hadn't  to  wait  long.  The  Doctor,  in  the 
doorway,  went  right  to  the  point. 

"Mr.  Reddy,"  said  he,  "where's  my  daugh- 
ter?" 

Reddy  answered  in  a  quiet,  composed  voice: 

"I  don't  know,  Dr.  Fowler." 

"You  do!"  shouted  the  Doctor,  "You  ran 
82 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

away  with  her  last  night.  What  have  you  done 
with  her?" 

Reddy  said  in  the  same  dignified  way: 

"I  haven't  done  anything.  I  know  nothing 
about  her.  I  haven't  any  more  idea  than  you 
where  she  is." 

At  that  the  Doctor  got  beside  himself.  He 
shouted  out  furiously : 

"You  have,  you  d d  liar,  and  I'll  get  it 

out  of  you,"  and  he  made  a  lunge  at  Reddy 
to  seize  him.  But  Mills  jumped  in  and  grabbed 
his  arm.  Holding  it  he  said,  trying  to  quiet 
down  the  Doctor: 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  Dr.  Fowler.  Maybe 
when  Mr.  Reddy  sees  that  we  understand  the 
situation,  he'll  be  willing  to  explain."  Then 
he  turned  to  Reddy:  "There's  no  good  pre- 
varicating. Your  letter  to  Miss  Hesketh  has 
been  found.  Now  we're  all  agreed  that  we 
don't  want  any  talk  or  scandal  about  this.  If 
you  want  to  get  out  of  the  affair  without  trou- 
ble to  yourself  and  others  you'd  better  tell  the 
truth.  Where  is  she?" 

83 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  Reddy  cried  out 
suddenly,  as  mad  as  the  Doctor,  and  before 
INI  ills  could  answer^  the  branch  telephone  on 
the  deslc  rang. 

Reddy  gave  a  loud  exclamation  and  made  a 
jump  for  it.  But  Mills  got  before  him  and 
caught  him.  He  struggled  to  get  away  till 
the  Doctor  seized  him  on  the  other  side.  They 
fought  for  a  moment,  and  then  got  him  back 
against  the  door,  all  the  time  the  telephone 
ringing  like  mad.  As  they  wrestled  with  him 
Mills  called  over  his  shoulder  to  Gilsey: 

"Answer  that  telephone,  quick." 

Gilsey,  scared  most  out  of  his  wits,  ran  to 
the  phone  and  took  down  the  receiver.  Anne 
Hennessey  was  at  the  other  end  with  her  aw- 
ful message. 

When  he  got  it  Gilsey  gave  a  cry  like  he 
was  stabbed,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Reddy,  pin- 
ioned against  the  door. 

"Good  Lord,  have  mercy,  Mr.  Jack,"  he 
gasped  out.  "Miss  Hesketh's  dead.  She's  mur- 
dered— on  the  turnpike — murdered  last  night!" 

84 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

The  Doctor  dropped  Reddy,  tore  the  instru- 
ment out  of  Gilsey's  hand  and  took  the  rest  of 
the  message. 

Reddy  turned  the  color  of  ashes.  There 
wasn't  any  need  to  hold  him.  He  fell  back 
against  the  door  with  his  jaw  dropped  and  his 
eyes  staring  like  a  man  in  a  trance.  Gilsey 
thought  he  was  going  to  die  and  was  for  run- 
ning to  him,  crying  out,  "Oh,  Mr.  Jack,  don't 
look  that  way."  But  Mills  caught  the  old 
servant  by  the  arm  and  held  him  back,  watch- 
ing Reddy  as  sharp  as  a  ferret. 

The  Doctor  turned  from  the  phone  and  said : 
"It's  true.  Miss  Hesketh's  been  murdered." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  The  click  of  the 
receiver  falling  into  its  hook  was  the  only 
sound.  The  three  other  men — the  Doctor  as 
white  as  death,  too — stood  staring  at  Reddy. 
And  then,  seeing  those  three  faces,  he  burst 
out  like  he  was  crazy : 

"No — she's  not — she  can't  be!  I  was  there; 
I  went  the  moment  I  got  her  message.  I  was 
on  the  turnpike  where  she  said  she'd  be.  I 

85 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

was  up  and  down  there  most  of  the  night.  And 

— and '  he  stopped  suddenly  and  put  his 

hands  over  his  face,  groaning,  "Oh,  my  God, 
Sylvia — why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

He  lurched  forward  and  dropped  into  a 
chair,  his  hands  over  his  face,  moaning  like 
an  animal  in  pain. 


VI 

T  ONGWOOD  was  stunned.  By  noon 
-•— •  everybody  knew  it  and  there  was  no 
more  business  that  day.  The  people  stood  in 
groups,  talking  in  whispers  as  if  they  were 
at  a  funeral.  And  in  the  afternoon  it  was 
like  a  funeral,  the  body  coming  back  by  train 
and  being  taken  from  the  depot  to  Maple- 
shade  in  one  of  the  Doctor's  farm  wagons.  It 
lay  under  a  sheet  and  as  the  wagon  passed 
through  the  crowd  you  couldn't  hear  a  sound, 
except  for  a  woman  crying  here  and  there. 

Then  it  was  as  if  a  spring  that  held  the  peo- 
ple dumb  and  still  was  loosed  and  the  excite- 
ment burst  up.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it. 
It  seemed  like  every  village  up  and  down  the 
line  had  emptied  itself  into  Longwood.  Farm- 
ers and  laborers  and  loafers  swarmed  along 
the  streets,  the  rich  came  in  motors,  tearing  to 

87 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Mapleshade,  and  the  police  were  everywhere, 
as  if  they'd  sprung  out  of  the  ground. 

By  afternoon  the  reporters  came  pouring  in 
from  town.  The  Inn  was  full  up  with  them 
and  they  were  buzzing  round  my  exchange  like 
flies.  Some  of  them  tried  to  get  hold  of  me 
and  that  night  had  the  nerve  to  come  knock- 
ing at  Mrs.  Galway's  side  door,  demanding 
the  telephone  girl.  But,  believe  me,  I  sat 
tight  and  said  nothing — nothing  to  them.  The 
police  were  after  me  mighty  quick,  and  there 
was  a  seance  over  Corwin's  Drug  Store  when 
I  felt  like  I  was  being  put  to  the  third  de- 
gree. I  told  them  all  I  knew,  job  or  no  job, 
for  I  guessed  right  off  that  that  talk  I'd  over- 
heard on  the  phone  might  be  an  important 
clew.  They  kept  it  close.  It  wasn't  till  after 
the  inquest  that  the  press  got  it. 

Before  the  inquest  every  sort  of  rumor  was 
flying  about,  and  the  papers  were  full  of  crazy 
stories,  not  half  of  them  true.  I'd  read  about 
places  and  people  I  knew  as  well  as  my  own 
face  in  the  mirror,  and  they'd  sound  like  a 

88 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

dime  novel,  so  colored  up  and  twisted  round 
the  oldest  inhabitant  wouldn't  have  recognized 
them. 

To  get  at  the  facts  was  a  job,  but,  knowing 
who  was  reliable  and  who  wasn't,  I  questioned 
and  ferreted  and,  I  guess,  before  I  was  done 
I  had  them  pretty  straight. 

Sylvia  had  been  killed  by  a  blow  on  the 
side  of  her  head — a  terrible  blow.  A  sheriff's 
deputy  I  know  told  me  that  in  all  his  experi- 
ence he  had  seen  nothing  worse.  Her  hat  had 
evidently  shielded  the  scalp.  It  was  pulled 
well  down  over  her  head,  the  long  pin  bent 
but  still  thrust  through  it.  Where  she  had 
been  hit  the  plush  was  torn  but  not  the  thick 
interlining,  and  her  hair,  all  loosened,  was 
hanging  down  against  her  neck.  There  was 
a  wound — not  deep,  more  like  a  tearing  of  the 
skin,  on  the  lower  part  of  her  cheek.  It  was 
agreed  that  she  had  been  struck  only  once  by 
some  heavy  implement  that  had  a  sharp  or 
jagged  edge.  Though  the  woods  and  fields 
had  been  thoroughly  searched  nothing  had 

89 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

been  discovered  that  could  have  dealt  the  blow. 
Whatever  he  had  used  the  murderer  had  either 
successfully  hidden  it  or  taken  it  away  with 
him.  The  deputy  told  me  it  looked  to  him 
as  if  it  might  have  been  some  farming  tool 
like  a  spade,  or  even  a  heavy  branch  broken 
from  a  tree.  The  way  the  body  was  arranged, 
the  coat  drawn  smoothly  together,  the  branches 
completely  covering  her,  showed  that  the  mur- 
derer had  taken  time  to  conceal  his  crime, 
though  why  he  had  not  drawn  the  body  back 
into  the  thick  growth  of  bushes  was  a  point 
that  puzzled  everybody. 

It  was  impossible  to  trace  any  footprints,  as 
the  automobile  party  and  Hines  had  trodden 
the  earth  about  her  into  a  muddy  mass,  and 
the  grass  along  the  edge  was  too  thick  and 
springy  to  hold  any  impression. 

Close  behind  the  place  where  she  lay  twigs 
of  the  screening  trees  were  snapped  and  bent 
as  if  her  assailant  had  broken  through  them. 

There  were  people  who  said  Hines  would 
have  been  arrested  on  the  spot  if  robbery  had 

90 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

been  added  to  murder.  But  the  jewelry  was 
all  on  her,  more  than  he  said  he  had  noticed 
when  she  was  in  the  Wayside  Arbor.  The 
pearl  necklace  alone  was  worth  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  just  below  it,  clasping  her 
gown  over  the  chest,  was  a  diamond  cross,  an 
old  ornament  of  her  mother's,  made  of  the  fin- 
est Brazilian  stones.  In  the  pocket  of  her 
coat  was  a  purse  with  forty-eight  dollars  in 
it.  So  right  at  the  start  the  theory  of  rob- 
bery was  abandoned. 

Another  inexplicable  thing  was  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  French  maid,  Virginie  Du- 
pont.  Jack  Reddy  denied  any  knowledge  of 
her.  He  said  Sylvia  had  never  mentioned 
bringing  her  with  them  and  he  didn't  think 
intended  to  do  so.  The  Mapleshade  people 
thought  differently,  all  declaring  that  Sylvia 
depended  on  her  and  took  her  wherever  she 
went.  One  of  the  mysteries  about  the  woman 
that  was  quickly  cleared  up  was  the  walk  she 
had  taken  to  the  village  on  Sunday  morning. 
This  was  to  meet  Mr.  Reddy  and  take  from 

91 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

him  the  letter  for  Sylvia  which  had  been  found 
in  the  desk. 

I  know  from  what  I  heard  that  the  police 
were  keen  to  find  her,  but  she  had  dropped 
out  of  sight  without  leaving  a  trace.  No  one 
at  Mapleshade  knew  anything  about  her  or 
her  connections.  She  was  not  liked  in  the 
house  or  the  village  and  had  made  no  friends. 
On  her  free  Sundays  she'd  go  to  town  and 
when  she  returned  say  very  little  about  where 
she'd  been.  A  search  of  her  rooms  showed 
nothing,  except  that  she  seemed  to  have  left 
her  clothes  behind  her.  She  was  last  seen  at 
Mapleshade  by  Nora  Magee,  who,  at  half-past 
five  on  Sunday,  met  her  on  the  third  floor 
stairs.  Nora  was  off  for  a  walk  to  the  vil- 
lage with  Harper  and  was  in  a  hurry.  She 
asked  Virginie  if  she  was  going  out  and  Vir- 
ginie  said  no,  she  felt  sick  and  was  going  up 
to  lie  down  till  she'd  be  wanted  to  help  Miss 
Sylvia  dress  for  dinner. 

If  you  ask  me  was  anyone  suspected  at 
this  stage  I'd  answer  "yes,"  but  people  were 

92 


afraid  to  say  who.  There  was  talk  about 
Hines  on  the  street  and  in  the  postoffice,  but 
it  was  only  when  you  were  close  shut  in  your 
own  room  or  walking  quiet  up  a  side  street 
that  the  person  with  you  would  whisper  the 
Doctor's  name.  Nobody  dared  say  it  aloud, 
but  there  wasn't  a  soul  in  Longwood  who 
didn't  know  about  the  quarreling  at  Maple- 
shade,  whose  was  the  money  that  ran  it,  and 
the  will  that  left  everything  to  Mrs.  Fowler 
if  her  daughter  died. 

But  no  arrests  were  made.  Everything  was 
waiting  on  the  inquest,  and  we  all  heard  that 
there  were  important  facts — already  known  to 
the  police — which  would  not  be  made  public 
till  then. 

Wednesday  afternoon  they  held  the  inquest 
at  Mapleshade.  The  authorities  had  rounded 
up  a  bunch  of  witnesses,  I  among  them.  The 
work  in  the  Exchange  had  piled  up  so  we'd 
had  to  send  a  hurry  call  for  help  to  head- 
quarters and  I  left  the  office  in  charge  of  a 
new  girl,  Katie  Reilly,  Irish,  a  tall,  gawky 

93 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

thing,  who  was  going  to  work  with  us  here- 
after on  split  hours. 

Going  down  Maple  Lane  it  was  like  a  tar- 
get club  outing  or  a  political  picnic,  except  for 
the  solemn  faces.  I  saw  Hines  and  his  party, 
and  the  railway  men,  and  a  lot  of  queer  guys 
that  I  took  to  be  the  jury.  Halfway  there 
a  gang  of  reporters  passed  me,  talking  loud, 
and  swinging  along  in  their  big  overcoats. 
Near  the  black  pine  the  toot  of  a  horn  made 
me  stand  back  and  Jack  Reddy's  roadster 
scudded  by,  he  driving,  with  Casey  beside  him, 
and  the  two  old  Gilseys,  pale  and  peaked  in 
the  back  seat. 

They  held  the  inquest  in  the  dining-room, 
with  the  coroner  sitting  at  one  end  of  the 
long  shiny  table  and  the  jury  grouped  round 
the  other.  Take  it  from  me,  it  was  a  gloomy 
sight.  The  day  outside  was  cold  and  cloudy, 
and  through  the  French  windows  that  looked 
out  on  the  lawns,  the  light  came  still  and  gray, 
making  the  faces  look  paler  than  they  already 
were.  It  was  a  grand,  beautiful  room  with 

94 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

a  carved  stone  fireplace  where  logs  were  burn- 
ing. Back  against  the  walls  were  sideboards 
with  silver  dishes  on  them  and  hand-painted 
portraits  hung  on  the  walls. 

But  the  thing  you  couldn't  help  looking  at 
— and  that  made  all  the  splendor  just  nothing 
— were  Sylvia's  clothes  hanging  over  the  back 
of  a  chair,  and  on  a  little  table  near  them  her 
hat  and  veil,  the  one  glove  she  had  had  on, 
and  the  heap  of  jewelry.  All  those  fine  gar- 
ments and  the  precious  stones  worth  a  for- 
tune seemed  so  pitiful  and  useless  now. 

We  were  awful  silent  at  first,  a  crowd  of 
people  sitting  along  the  walls,  staring  straight 
ahead  or  looking  on  the  ground.  Now  and 
then  someone  would  move  uneasily  and  make 
a  rustle,  but  there  were  moments  so  still  you 
could  hear  the  fire  snapping  and  the  scratch- 
ing of  the  reporters'  pencils.  They  were  just 
behind  me,  bunched  up  at  a  table  in  front  of 
the  window.  When  the  Doctor  came  in  every- 
one was  as  quiet  as  death  and  the  eyes  on  him 
were  like  the  eyes  of  images,  so  fixed  and 

95 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

steady.  Mrs.  Fowler  was  not  present — they 
sent  for  her  later — but  Nora  and  Anne  were 
there  as  pale  as  ghosts. 

The  Coroner  opened  up  by  telling  about  how 
and  where  the  deceased  had  been  found,  the 
position,  the  surroundings,  etc.,  etc.,  and  then 
called  Dr.  Graham,  who  was  the  county  phy- 
sician and  had  made  the  autopsy. 

A  good  deal  of  what  he  said  I  didn't  un- 
derstand— it  was  to  prove  that  death  result- 
ed from  a  fracture  of  the  skull.  He  could 
not  state  the  exact  hour  of  dissolution,  but 
said  it  was  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  night, 
some  time  before  twelve.  He  described  the 
condition  of  the  scalp  which  had  been  partially 
protected  by  the  hat,  thick  as  it  was  with  a 
plush  outside  and  a  heavy  interlining.  This 
was  held  up  and  then  given  to  the  jury  to  ex- 
amine. I  saw  it  plainly  as  they  passed  it 
from  hand  to  hand — a  small  dark  automobile 
hat,  with  a  tear  in  one  side  and  some  shreds 
of  black  Shetland  veil  hanging  to  its  edge.  She 
bore  no  other  marks  of  violence  save  a  few 

96 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

small  scratches  on  her  right  hand.  She  had 
evidently  been  attacked  unexpectedly  and  had 
had  no  time  to  fight  or  struggle. 

The  automobilists  who  had  found  the  body 
came  next.  Only  the  men  were  present — two 
nice-looking  gentlemen — the  ladies  having 
been  excused.  They  told  what  I  have  already 
written,  one  of  them  making  the  creeps  go 
down  your  spine,  describing  how  his  wife  said 
she  saw  the  hand  in  the  moonlight,  and  how 
he  walked  back,  laughing,  and  pulled  off  the 
brushwood. 

After  that  Mrs.  Fowler  came,  all  swathed 
up  in  black  and  looking  like  a  haggard  old 
woman.  The  Coroner  spoke  very  kind  to  her. 
When  she  got  to  the  quarrel  between  Sylvia 
and  the  Doctor  her  voice  began  to  tremble  and 
she  could  hardly  go  on.  It  was  pitiful  to 
see  but  she  had  to  tell  it,  and  about  the  other 
quarrels  too.  Then  she  pulled  herself  together 
and  told  about  going  up  to  Sylvia's  room  and 
finding  the  letter. 

The  Coroner  stopped  her  there  and  taking 
97 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

a  folded  paper  from  the  table  beside  him  said 
it  was  the  letter  and  read  it  out  to  us.  It  was 
dated  Firehill,  Nov.  21st. 

"DEAREST  : 

"All  right.  This  evening  at  seven  by  the  pine. 
We'll  go  in  my  racer  to  Bloomington  and  be  married 
there  by  Fiske,  the  man  I  told  you  about.  It'll  be 
a  long  ride  but  at  the  end  we'll  find  happiness  wait- 
ing for  us.  Don't  disappoint  me — don't  do  what 
you  did  the  other  time.  Believe  in  my  love  and  trust 
yourself  to  me — JACK." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  you  could  hear 
the  fire  falling  together  with  a  little  soft 
rustle.  All  the  eyes  turned  as  if  they  were 
on  pivots  and  looked  at  Jack  Reddy — all  but 
mine.  I  kept  them  on  Mrs.  Fowler  and  never 
moved  them  till  she  was  led,  bent  and  sob- 
bing, out  of  the  room. 

Nora  Magee  was  the  next,  and  I  heard  them 
say  afterward  made  a  good  witness.  The 
coroner  asked  her — and  Anne  when  her  turn 
came — very  particular  about  the  jewelry,  what 
was  gone,  how  many  pieces  and  such  ques- 
tions. And  then  it  came  out  that  nobody — 

98 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

not  even  Mrs.  Fowler — knew  exactly  what 
Sylvia  had.  She  was  all  the  time  buying  new 
ornaments  or  having  her  old  ones  reset  and 
the  only  person  who  kept  track  of  her  pos- 
sessions was  Virginie  Dupont.  All  any  of 
them  could  be  sure  of  was  that  the  jewel  box 
was  empty,  and  the  toilet  articles,  fitted  bag, 
and  gold  mesh  purse  were  gone. 

Hines  was  called  after  that.  He  was  all 
slicked  up  in  his  store  clothes  and  looked  very 
different  to  what  he  had  that  day  in  the  sum- 
mer. Though  anyone  could  see  he  was  scared 
blue,  the  perspiration  on  his  forehead  and  his 
big,  knotty  hands  twiddling  at  his  tie  and  his 
watch  chain;  he  told  his  story  very  clear  and 
straightforward.  I  think  everyone  was  im- 
pressed by  it  and  by  Mrs.  Hines,  who  followed 
him.  She  was  a  miserable  looking  little  rat 
of  a  woman,  with  inflamed  eyes  and  a  long 
drooping  nose,  but  she  corroborated  all  he 
said,  and — anyway,  to  me — it  sounded  true. 

Tecla  Rabine,  the  Bohemian  servant,  fol- 
lowed, and  when  she  walked  over  to  sit  in  the 

99 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

chair,  keyed  up  as  I  was,  I  came  near  laugh- 
ing. She  was  a  large,  fat  woman  with  a  good- 
humored  red  face  and  little  twinkling  eyes, 
and  she  sure  was  a  sight,  bulging  out  of  a 
black  cloth  suit  that  was  the  fashion  when 
Columbus  landed.  On  her  head  was  a  fancy 
straw  hat  with  one  mangy  feather  sticking 
straight  up  at  the  back,  and  the  last  touch 
was  her  face,  one  side  still  swollen  out  from 
her  toothache,  and  looking  for  all  the  world 
as  if  she  had  a  quid  in  her  cheek. 

Though  she  spoke  in  a  queer,  foreign  dia- 
lect, she  gave  her  testimony  very  well  and  she 
told  something  that  no  one — I  don't  think  even 
the  police — had  heard  before. 

While  Hines  was  locking  up  she  went  to 
her  room  but  couldn't  sleep  because  of  the 
pain  of  her  toothache. 

"Ach,"  she  said,  spreading  her  hand  out 
near  her  cheek,  "it  was  out  so  far — swole  out, 
and,  oh,  my  God — pain!" 

"Never  mind  your  toothache,"  said  the 
Coroner — "keep  to  the  subject." 

100 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"How  do  I  hear  noises  if  my  toothache 
doesn't  make  me  to  wake?"  she  asked,  giving 
him  a  sort  of  indignant  look. 

Somebody  laughed,  a  kind  of  choked  gig- 
gle, and  I  heard  one  of  those  fresh  write-up 
chaps  behind  me  whisper: 

"This  is  the  comic  relief." 

"Oh,  you  heard  noises — what  kind  of 
noises?" 

"The  scream,"  she  said. 

"You  heard  a  scream?" 

"Yes — one  scream — far  away,  up  toward 
Cresset's  Crossing.  I  go  crazy  with  the  pain 
and  after  Mr.  Hines  is  come  upstairs  I  go 

down  to  the  kitchen  to  make "  she  stopped, 

looking  up  in  the  air — "what  you  call  him?"- 
she  put  her  hand  flat  on  the  side  of  her  face 
— "for  here,  to  stop  the  pain." 

"Do  you  mean  a  poultice?" 

She  grinned  all  over  and  nodded. 

"Yes,  that's  him.  I  make  hot  water  on 
the  gas,  and  then,  way  off,  I  hear  a  scream." 

"What  time  was  that?" 
101 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"The  kitchen  clock  says  ten  minutes  past 
ten." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

She  looked  surprised. 

"I  make  the — you  know  the  name — for  my 
ache." 

"Didn't  you  go  out  and  investigate — even 
go  to  the  door?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  gave  a  sort  of  good- 
humored  laugh  as  if  she  was  explaining  things 
to  a  child. 

"Go  out.  For  why?  If  I  go  out  for 
screams  I  go  out  when  the  dagoes  fight,  and 
when  the  automobiles  be  pass — up  and  down 
all  night,  often  drunken  and  making  noises;" 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders  sort  of  careless; 
"I  no  be  bothered  with  screams." 

"Did  you  go  to  bed?" 

"I  do.  I  make  the  medicine  for  my  swole 
up  face  and  go  upstairs." 

"Did  you  hear  any  more  screams?" 

"No — there  are  no  more.  If  there  are  I 
would  have  hear  them,  for  I  can't  sleep  ever 

102 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

all  night.  All  I  hear  is  automobiles — many 
automobiles  passing  up  and  down  and  maybe 
—two,  three,  four  times — the  horns  sound- 
ing." 

The  Coroner  asked  her  a  few  more  ques- 
tions, principally  about  Hines'  movements, 
and  her  answers,  if  you  could  get  over  the 
lingo,  were  all  clear  and  in  line  with  what 
Hines  had  said. 

The  railway  men  followed  her,  Sands  and 
Clark  and  Jim  Donahue.  Jim  was  as  nervous 
as  a  cat,  holding  his  hat  in  his  hands  and  twist- 
ing it  round  like  a  plate  he  was  drying.  He 
told  about  the  woman  he  put  on  the  seven- 
thirty  train  on  Sunday  night. 

"Where  did  you  first  see  this  woman?"  he 
was  asked. 

"On  the  platform,  just  before  the  train 
came  in.  She  came  down  along  it,  out  of  the 
dark." 

"Can  you  swear  it  was  Miss  Hesketh?" 

Jim  didn't  think  he  could  swear  because  he 
couldn't  see  her  face  plain,  it  being  covered 

108 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

with  a  figured  black  veil.  But  he  never 
thought  of  it  being  anyone  else. 

"Why  did  you  think  it  was  she?" 

"Because  it  looked  like  her.  It  was  her  coat 
and  her  gold  purse  and  I'd  know  her  hair  any- 
where. And  when  I  spoke  to  her  and  said: 
'Good  evening,  Miss  Hesketh,  going  to  leave 
us?'  it  was  her  voice  that  answered:  'Yes,  Jim, 
I'm  going  away  for  a  few  days.' ' 

"Did  you  have  any  more  conversation  with 
her?" 

"No,  because  the  train  came  along  then.  She 
got  in  and  I  handed  her  her  bag  and  said 
'Good  night/  " 

When  he  was  asked  to  describe  the  bag,  he 
said  he  hadn't  noticed  it  except  that  it  was 
a  medium  sized  bag,  he  thought,  dark  col- 
ored. 

Then  he  was  shown  the  clothes — that  was 
heart-rending.  The  Coroner  held  them  up, 
the  long  fur  coat,  the  little  plush  hat,  and 
the  one  glove.  He  thought  they  were  the 
same  but  it  was  hard  to  tell,  the  platform  being 

104 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

so  dark — anyway,  it  was  them  sort  of  clothes 
the  lady  had  on,  and  though  he  couldn't  be 
sure  of  the  glove  he  had  noticed  that  her  gloves 
were  light  colored. 

Sands,  the  Pullman  conductor,  and  Clark, 
from  the  Junction,  testified  that  they'd  seen 
the  same  woman  on  the  train  and  at  the  Junc- 
tion. Sands  particularly  noticed  the  gold 
mesh  purse  because  she  took  her  ticket  out  of 
it.  He  addressed  her  as  Miss  Hesketh  and 
she  had  answered  him,  but  only  to  say  "Good 
evening." 

Then  came  the  Firehill  servants.  The  two 
old  Gilseys  were  dreadfully  upset.  Mrs.  Gil- 
sey  cried  and  poor  old  David  kept  hesitating 
and  looking  at  Mr.  Reddy,  but  the  stamp  of 
truth  was  on  every  word  they  said.  Casey 
followed  them,  telling  what  I've  already  writ- 
ten. 

When  Mr.  Reddy  was  called  a  sort  of  stir 
went  over  the  people.  Everybody  was  curi- 
ous to  hear  his  story,  as  we'd  only  got  bits  of 
it,  most  of  them  wild  rumors.  And  there 

105 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

wasn't  a  soul  in  Longwood  that  didn't  grieve 
for  him,  plunged  down  at  the  moment  when 
he  thought  he  was  most  happy  into  such  an 
awful  tragedy.  As  he  sat  down  in  the  chair 
opposite  the  Coroner,  the  room  was  as  still  as 
a  tomb,  even  the  reporters  behind  me  not  mak- 
ing so  much  as  the  scratch  of  a  pen. 

He  looked  gray  and  pinched,  his  eyes  burnt 
out  like  a  person's  who  hasn't  slept  for  nights. 
You  could  see  he  was  nervous,  for  he  kept 
crossing  and  uncrossing  his  knees,  and  he 
didn't  give  his  evidence  nearly  so  clear  and 
continued  as  the  newspapers  had  it.  He'd  stop 
every  now  and  then  as  if  he  didn't  remember 
or  as  if  he  was  thinking  of  the  best  way  to  ex- 
press himself. 

'  He  began  by  telling  how  he  and  Sylvia  had 
arranged  to  go  in  his  car  to  Bloomington, 
and  there  be  married  by  his  friend  Fiske,  an 
Episcopal  clergyman.  The  Coroner  asked  him 
if  Fiske  expected  them  and  he  said  no,  he 
hadn't  had  time  to  let  him  know  as  the  elope- 
ment was  decided  on  hurriedly. 

106 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Why  was  the  decision  hurried?"  the  Coro- 
ner asked  and  he  answered  low,  as  if  he  was 
reluctant  to  say  it. 

"Because  Miss  Hesketh  had  a  violent  quar- 
rel with  her  stepfather  on  Saturday  morning. 
It  was  not  till  after  that  that  she  made  up 
her  mind  she  would  go  with  me." 

"Did  you  know  at  the  time  what  that  quar- 
rel was  about?" 

His  face  got  a  dull  red  and  he  said  low. 

"Yes,  she  told  me  of  it  in  a  letter  she  wrote 
me  immediately  afterward." 

Then  he  told  how  on  Saturday  night  he  had 
received  a  special  delivery  letter  from  her,  tell- 
ing of  the  quarrel  and  agreeing  to  the  elope- 
ment. That  letter  he  had  destroyed.  He  an- 
swered it  the  next  morning,  she  having  di- 
rected him  to  bring  it  in  himself  and  deliver 
it  to  Virginie,  who  would  meet  him  opposite 
Corwin's  drugstore.  This  he  did,  the  letter 
being  the  one  already  in  evidence. 

The  Coroner  asked  him  to  explain  the  sen- 
tence which  said  "Don't  disappoint  me — don't 

107 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

do  what  you  did  the  other  time."    He  looked 
straight  in  front  of  him  and  answered: 

"We  had  made  a  plan  to  elope  once  before 
and  she  had  backed  out." 

"Do  you  know  why?" 

"It  was  too — too  unusual — too  unconven- 
tional. When  it  came  to  the  scandal  of  an 
elopement  she  hung  back." 

"Is  it  your  opinion  that  the  quarrel  with 
Dr.  Fowler  made  her  agree  the  second  time?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  that." 

Then  he  told  of  leaving  Firehill,  coming 
into  Longwood,  and  going  down  Maple  Lane. 

"I  reached  there  a  few  minutes  before  seven 
and  ran  down  to  the  pine  tree  where  I  was 
to  meet  her.  I  drew  up  to  one  side  of  the 
road  and  waited.  During  the  time  I  waited — 
half  an  hour — I  neither  saw  nor  heard  any- 
body. At  half-past  seven  I  decided  she  had 
changed  her  mind  again  and  left." 

"You  didn't  go  to  the  house?" 

"No — I  was  not  welcome  at  the  house.  She 
had  told  me  not  to  go  there." 

108 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"You  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing  her  some- 
where else,  though?" 

His  face  got  red  again  and  you  could 
see  he  had  to  make  an  effort  not  to  get 
angry. 

"After  I  had  heard  from  Miss  Hesketh  and 
seen  from  Dr.  Fowler's  manner  that  I  was  not 
wanted  at  Mapleshade,  I  saw  her  at  intervals. 
Once  or  twice  we  went  for  walks  in  the  woods, 
and  a  few  times,  perhaps  three  or  four,  I  met 
her  on  the  turnpike  and  took  her  for  a  drive 
in  my  car." 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  how  he  drove  back 
to  Firehill,  reaching  there  a  little  after  nine. 
The  place  was  empty  and  he  went  up  to  his 
room.  He  didn't  know  how  long  he'd  been 
there  when  the  telephone  rang.  It  was  the 
mysterious  message  from  her. 

He  repeated  it  slowly,  evidently  trying  to 
give  it  word  for  word.  You  could  have  heard 
a  pin  drop  when  he  ended. 

"Did  you  attempt  to  question  her  on  the 
phone?" 

109 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"No,  it  all  went  too  quick  and  I  was  too  as- 
tonished." 

"Did  you  get  the  impression  that  she  was 
in  any  grave  danger?" 

"No,  I  never  thought  of  that.  She  was  very 
rash  and  impulsive  and  I  thought  she'd  done 
some  foolhardy  thing  and  had  turned  to  me 
as  the  one  person  on  whom  she  could  rely." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  foolhardy?" 

He  gave  a  shrug  and  threw  out  his  hands. 

"The  sort  of  thing  a  child  might  do — some 
silly,  thoughtless  action.  She  was  full  of 
spirit  and  daring;  you  never  could  be  sure  of 
what  she  mightn't  try.  I  didn't  think  of  any 
definite  thing.  I  ran  to  the  garage  and  got 
out  my  car  and  went  northward  up  the  Fire- 
hill  Road.  It  was  terrible  traveling,  and  I 
should  say  it  took  me  nearly  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  make  the  distance.  When  I  was 
nearing  the  pike  I  sounded  my  horn  to  let 
her  know  I  was  coming. 

"Just  before  I  got  there  the  clouds  had 
broken  and  the  moon  come  out.  The  whole 

110 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

landscape  was  flooded  with  light,  and  I  made 
no  doubt  I'd  see  her  as  soon  as  I  turned  into 
the  pike.  But  she  wasn't  there.  I  slowed  up 
and  waited,  looking  up  and  down,  for  I'd  no 
idea  which  way  she  was  coming,  but  there 
wasn't  a  sign  of  her.  As  far  as  I  could  see, 
the  road  was  lifeless  and  deserted.  Then  I 
ran  up  and  down — a  mile  or  two  either  way — 
but  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen." 

"Did  you  hear  any  sounds  in  the  under- 
brush— footsteps,  breaking  of  twigs?" 

"I  heard  nothing.  The  place  was  as  still 
as  the  grave.  I  made  longer  runs  up  and 
down,  looking  along  both  sides  and  now 
and  then  waiting  and  sounding  the  auto 
horn." 

"Did  you  stop  at  any  of  the  farms  or  cot- 
tages and  make  inquiries?" 

"No.  I  didn't  do  that  because  I  had  no 
thought  of  her  being  in  any  real  danger  and 
because  she'd  cautioned  me  against  letting 
anyone  know.  After  I'd  searched  the  main 
road  thoroughly  for  several  miles  and  gone  up 

111 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

several  branch  roads  I  began  to  think  she'd 
played  a  joke  on  me." 

"Do  you  mean  fooled  you?" 

"Yes — the  whole  thing  began  to  look  that 
way.  Her  not  being  at  the  rendezvous  in  Ma- 
ple Lane  and  then  phoning  me  to  meet  her 
at  a  place,  which,  when  I  came  to  think  of 
it,  it  was  nearly  impossible  for  her  to  reach 
in  that  space  of  time.  It  seemed  the  only 
reasonable  explanation — and  it  was  the  sort 
of  thing  she  might  do.  When  I  got  the  idea 
in  my  head  it  grew  and,"  he  looked  down  on 
the  floor,  his  voice  dropping  low  as  if  it 
was  hard  for  him  to  speak,  "I  got  blazing 
mad." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  like  he  couldn't  go 
on.  In  that  moment  I  thought  of  how  he 
must  be  feeling,  remembering  his  rage  against 
her  while  all  the  time  she  was  lying  cold  and 
dead  by  the  road. 

"I  was  too  angry  to  go  home,"  he  went  on, 
"and  not  thinking  much  what  I  did,  I  let 
the  car  out  and  went  up  and  down — I  don't 

112 


THE    GIRD   AT   CENTRAL1 

know  how  far — I  don't  remember — miles  and 
miles." 

"According  to  Mr.  Casey  it  was  half -past 
four  when  you  came  back  to  the  garage." 

"I  daresay;  I  didn't  notice  the  time." 

"You  were  from  9:30  to  4:30  on  the  road?" 

"Yes." 

"You  spent  those  seven  hours  going  up  and 
down  the  turnpike  and  the  intersecting  roads?" 

"Yes,  but  at  first  I  waited — for  half  hours 
at  a  time  in  different  places." 

He  looked  straight  at  the  Coroner  as  he  said 
that,  a  deep  steady  look,  more  quiet  and  intent 
than  he'd  done  since  he  started.  I  think  it 
would  have  seemed  to  most  people  as  if  he 
was  telling  the  absolute  truth  and  wanted  to 
impress  it.  But  when  a  girl  feels  about  a 
man  as  I  did  about  him,  she  can  see  below 
the  surface,  and  there  was  something  about 
the  expression  of  his  face,  about  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  that  made  me  think  for  the  first 
time  he  was  holding  something  back. 

Then  he  went  on  and  told  about  going  home 
113 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

and  falling  asleep  on  the  sofa,  and  about  the 
doctor  and  Mills  coming. 

"When  I  saw  the  Doctor  my  first  thought 
was  that  I  must  keep  quiet  till  I  found  out 
what  had  happened.  When  he  asked  me  where 
his  daughter  was  I  was  startled  as  I  realized 
she  wasn't  at  home.  But,  even  then,  I  hadn't 
any  idea  of  serious  trouble  and  I  was  deter- 
mined to  hold  my  tongue  till  I  knew  more 
than  I  did. 

"The  ring  of  the  telephone  gave  me  a  shock. 
I  had  been  expecting  to  get  a  call  from  her 
and  instinctively  I  gave  a  jump  for  it.  By 
that  time  I  was  sure  she'd  got  into  some  silly 
scrape  and  I  wasn't  going  to  have  her  step- 
father finding  out  and  starting  another  quar- 
rel. They,"  he  nodded  his  head  at  the  Doctor 
and  Mills,  "caught  on  at  once  and  made  a  rush 
for  me. 

"After  that "  he  lifted  his  hands  and  let 

them  drop  on  his  knees — "it  was  just  as 
they've  said.  I  was  paralyzed.  I  don't  know 
what  I  said.  I  only  felt  she'd  been  in  danger 

114 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

and  called  on  me  and  I'd  failed  her.  I  think 
for  a  few  moments  I  "was  crazy." 

His  voice  got  so  husky  he  could  hardly 
speak  and  he  bent  his  head  down,  looking  at 
his  hands.  I  guess  every  face  in  the  room 
was  turned  to  him  but  mine.  I  couldn't  look 
at  him  but  sat  like  a  dummy,  picking  at  my 
gloves,  and  inside,  in  my  heart,  I  felt  like  I 
was  crying.  In  the  silence  I  heard  one  of 
the  reporters  whisper: 

"Gee — poor  chap!  that's  tough!" 

He  was  asked  some  more  questions,  princi- 
pally about  what  Sylvia  had  told  him  of  the 
quarrels  with  her  stepfather.  You  could  see 
he  was  careful  in  his  answers.  According  to 
what  he  said  she'd  only  alluded  to  them  in  a 
general  way  as  making  the  life  at  Mapleshade 
very  uncomfortable. 

He  was  just  getting  up  when  I  saw  one  of 
the  jurors  pass  a  slip  of  paper  across  the  ta- 
ble to  the  Coroner.  He  looked  at  it,  then,  as 
Mr.  Reddy  was  moving  away,  asked  him  to 
wait  a  minute;  there  was  another  question — 

115 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

had  he  stopped  anywhere  during  Sunday  night 
to  get  gasoline  for  his  car? 

Mr.  Reddy  turned  back  and  said  very  sim- 
ply: 

"No,  I  had  an  extra  drum  in  the  car." 

"You  used  that?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  drum?" 

"Threw  it  into  the  bushes  somewhere  along 
the  road." 

"Do  you  know  the  place?" 

He  gave  a  sort  of  smile  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  don't  remember.  I  don't  know  where 
I  filled  the  tank.  When  it  was  done  I  pitched 
the  drum  back  into  the  trees — somewhere 
along  the  turnpike." 

Several  more  of  us  came  after  that,  I  among 
them.  But  the  real  sensation  of  the  day  was 
the  Doctor's  evidence,  which  I'll  keep  for  the 
next  chapter. 


VII 

Doctor  was  as  calm  and  matter-of- 
fact  as  if  he  were  giving  a  lecture  to  a 
class  of  students.  He  looked  much  better  than 
he  did  that  morning  in  the  Exchange;  rested 
and  with  a  good  color.  As  he  settled  himself 
in  the  chair,  I  heard  one  of  the  reporters  whis- 
per: 

"I  wouldn't  call  that  the  mug  of  a  mur- 
derer." 

I  looked  over  my  shoulder  right  at  the  one 
who  had  spoken,  a  young  chap  with  a  round, 
rosy,  innocent  sort  of  face  like  a  kid's  and 
yellow  hair  standing  up  over  his  head  as  thick 
as  sheep's  wool.  I'd  seen  him  several  times 
in  the  Exchange  and  knew  his  name  was  Bab- 
bitts and  that  the  other  fellows  called  him 
"Soapy."  When  he  caught  my  eye  he  winked, 

117 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

and  you  couldn't  be  mad  because  it  was  like  a 
big  pink  baby  winking  at  you. 

The  Doctor  told  his  story  more  straight  and 
continuous  than  any  of  the  others.  It  went 
along  so  clear  from  point  to  point,  that  the 
coroner  didn't  have  to  ask  so  many  questions, 
and  when  he  did  the  doctor  was  always  ready 
with  his  answer.  It  sounded  to  me  as  if  he'd 
thought  out  every  detail,  worked  it  up  just 
right  to  get  the  best  effect.  He  began  with 
Saturday  morning,  when  he'd  got  the  call  to 
go  to  the  Dalzells'. 

"An  operation  was  performed  early  that 
afternoon  and  I  stayed  during  the  night  and 
all  the  next  day,  going  out  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing at  ten  for  an  hour's  ride  in  my  motor.  I 
had  decided  to  remain  Sunday  night  too — 
though  the  patient  was  out  of  danger — when 
at  about  eight  I  received  a  telephone  message 
from  my  wife  saying  Miss  Hesketh  had  run 
away  with  Jack  Reddy.  Hearing  from  her 
that  their  route  would  be  by  the  turnpike  to 
Bloomington  I  made  up  my  mind  that  my  best 

118 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

course  was  to  strike  the  turnpike  and  intercept 
them." 

"You  disapproved  of  their  marriage?" 

"Decidedly.  Miss  Hesketh  was  too  young 
to  know  her  own  mind.  Mr.  Reddy  was  not 
the  husband  I  would  have  chosen  for  her — 
not  to  mention  the  distress  it  would  have 
caused  Mrs.  Fowler  to  have  her  daughter 
marry  in  that  manner.  My  desire  to  keep  the 
escapade  secret  made  me  tell  Mrs.  Dalzell  a 
falsehood — that  I  was  called  away  on  an  im- 
portant case. 

"The  Dalzells'  chauffeur  told  me  that  the 
road  from  their  place  to  the  turnpike  was  im- 
passable for  motors.  The  best  route  for  me 
would  be  to  go  to  the  Junction,  where  I  could 
strike  the  Riven  Rock  Road,  which  came  out 
on  the  turnpike  about  a  mile  from  Cresset's 
Crossing.  I  had  plenty  of  time,  as  the  dis- 
tance young  Reddy  would  have  to  travel  be- 
fore he  reached  that  point  was  nearly  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  miles. 

"I  arrived  at  the  Junction  as  the  train  for 
119 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Philadelphia  was  drawing  out.  I  spoke  to 
Clark,  the  station  agent,  about  the  road,  and, 
after  getting  the  directions,  walked  round  the 
depot  to  the  back  platform,  where  my  car 
stood.  As  I  passed  the  door  of  the  waiting- 
room  it  suddenly  opened  and  a  woman  came 
out." 

He  stopped — just  for  a  moment — as  if  to 
let  the  people  get  the  effect  of  his  words.  A 
rustle  went  over  the  room,  but  he  looked  as  if 
he  didn't  notice  it  and  went  on  as  calm  and 
natural  as  if  he  was  telling  us  a  fiction  story. 

"I  probably  wouldn't  have  noticed  her  if 
she  hadn't  given  a  suppressed  cry  and  cow- 
ered back  in  the  doorway.  That  made  me  look 
at  her  and,  to  my  amazement,  I  saw  it  was 
Miss  Hesketh's  maid,  Virginie  Dupont." 

Nobody  expected  it.  If  he'd  wanted  to 
spring  a  sensation  he'd  done  it.  We  were  all 
leaning  forward  with  our  mouths  open. 

"The  moment  I  saw  her  I  remembered  that 
my  wife  had  told  me  the  woman  had  gone  with 
Miss  Hesketh.  One  glance  into  the  waiting- 

120 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

room  told  me  she  was  alone  and  I  turned  on 
her  and  told  her  I  knew  of  the  elopement  and 
asked  her  what  she  was  doing  there.  She  was 
evidently  terrified  by  my  unexpected  appear- 
ance, but  seeing  she  was  caught,  she  confessed 
that  she  knew  all  about  it,  in  fact,  that  she 
had  been  instructed  by  Miss  Hesketh  to  go  to 
Philadelphia  by  the  branch  line,  take  a  room 
in  the  Bellevue-Stratford,  and  wait  there  till 
her  mistress  appeared. 

"I  was  enraged  and  let  her  see  it,  pushing 
her  round  to  the  car  and  ordering  her  into 
the  back  seat.  I  vaguely  noticed  that  she  car- 
ried a  bag  and  wrap  over  her  arm.  She  tried 
to  excuse  herself  but  I  shut  her  up  and  took 
my  seat  at  the  wheel.  There  was  no  one  on 
the  platform  as  we  went  out. 

"It  took  me  over  an  hour  to  negotiate  the 
distance  between  the  Junction  and  the  turn- 
pike. The  road  was  in  a  fearful  condition. 
We  ran  into  chuck  holes  and  through  water 
nearly  to  the  hubs.  Once  the  right  front 
wheel  dropping  into  a  washout,  the  lamp 

121 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

struck  a  stump  and  was  so  shattered  it  had  to 
be  put  out.  My  attention  was  concentrated 
on  the  path,  especially  after  we  left  the  open 
country  and  entered  a  thick  wood,  where,  with 
one  lamp  out  of  commission,  I  had  to  almost 
feel  my  way. 

"I  said  not  a  word  to  the  woman  nor  she 
to  me.  It  was  not  till  I  was  once  again  in 
the  open  that  I  turned  to  speak  to  her  and 
saw  she  was  gone." 

"Gone!"  said  one  of  the  jury — a  raw-boned, 
bearded  old  man  like  a  farmer — so  interested, 
he  spoke  right  out. 

"Yes,  gone.  I  guessed  in  a  moment  what 
she  had  done.  Either  when  I  had  stopped  to 
put  out  the  lamp  or  in  one  of  the  pauses  while 
I  was  feeling  my  way  through  the  wood  she 
had  slipped  out  and  run.  It  would  have  been 
easy  for  her  to  hide  in  the  dark  of  the  trees. 
I  glanced  into  the  tonneau  and  saw  that  the 
things  she  had  carried,  the  bag  and  the  wrap, 
were  also  missing.  She  had  been  frightened 
and  made  her  escape.  Unfortunately,  in  the 

122 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

shock  and  horror  of  the  next  day  the  whole 
matter  slipped  my  mind  and  she  had  time  to 
complete  her  getaway,  probably  by  the  branch 
line  early  Sunday  morning." 

The  Coroner  here  explained  that  inquiries 
had  since  been  made  at  the  branch  line  sta- 
tions for  the  woman  but  nobody  had  been 
found  who  had  seen  her. 

"I  had  no  time  to  go  back  and  look  for 
her,  and,  anyway,  it  would  have  been  useless, 
as  she  could  have  hidden  from  a  sheriff's  posse 
in  the  wood.  Besides,  my  whole  interest  was 
focused  on  reaching  the  turnpike.  I  could  see 
it  before  me,  a  long  winding  line  between  the 
dark  edges  of  small  trees.  I  turned  into  it 
and  let  the  car  out.  Though  the  road  has 
many  turns  I  could  have  seen  the  lamps  of  a 
motor  some  distance  ahead  and  I  ran  fast, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left  but  watch- 
ing for  approaching  lights.  On  my  ride  back 
I  met  only  a  few  vehicles,  several  farmers' 
wagons  and  the  car  of  Dr.  Pease,  the  Long- 
wood  practitioner. 

128 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"I  reached  home  about  two  and  went  at  once 
to  my  wife's  room.  She  was  in  a  hysterical 
state  and  I  stayed  with  her  an  hour  or  so  try- 
ing to  quiet  her.  When  she  was  better  I  re- 
tired to  my  own  apartment  and  at  seven  called 
up  Walter  Mills,  a  detective  in  New  York, 
telling  him  to  come  to  Longwood  as  soon  as 
he  could.  By  this  time  I  was  uneasy,  not  that 
I  had  any  suspicion  of  a  real  tragedy,  but  the 
disappearance  of  Miss  Hesketh  alarmed  me. 
I  met  Mills  at  the  train  and  told  him  the  situa- 
tion and  that  I  intended  telephoning  to 
Fiske  at  Bloomington,  thinking  they  might 
have  reached  there  by  some  other  way.  It  was 
his  suggestion  that  before  any  step  was  taken 
which  might  make  the  matter  public,  it  would 
be  well  to  communicate  with  Firehill  and  see 
if  the  servants  knew  anything.  I  did  this  and 
to  my  amazement  learned  that  Reddy  was 
there." 

That  is  all  of  the  Doctor's  testimony  that  I 
need  put  down  as  the  rest  of  it  you  know. 

It  left  us  in  a  sort  of  mixed-up  surprise. 
124 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

No  one  could  have  told  it  better,  no  one  could 
have  been  more  sure  about  it  or  more  quiet 
and  natural.  But — it  seems  like  I  ought  to 
write  that  word  in  the  biggest  letters  to  give 
the  idea  of  how  it  stood  out  in  my  mind. 

Of  all  the  stories  it  was  the  strangest  and 
it  was  so  awfully  pat.  I  don't  know  how  you 
feel  about  it,  reading  it  as  I've  written  it  here, 
but  I  can  say  for  myself,  listening  and  watch- 
ing that  man  tell  it,  I  couldn't  seem  to  believe 
it. 

It  was  near  to  evening,  the  room  getting 
dusk  and  the  fire  showing  up  large  and  bright 
when  the  jury  brought  in  their  verdict:  "The 
deceased  met  her  death  at  the  hands  of  a  per- 
son or  persons  unknown." 

I  walked  back  up  Maple  Lane.  The  night 
was  setting  in  cold  and  frosty.  The  clouds 
had  drawn  off,  the  air  was  clear  as  crystal  and 
full  of  the  sounds  of  motor  horns.  Big  and 
little  cars  passed  me,  jouncing  over  the  ruts 
and  swinging  round  the  bend  where  the  pine 
itood.  I  was  looking  up  at  it,  black  like  a 

125 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

skeleton  against  the  glow  in  the  West,  when 
a  step  came  up  behind  me  and  a  voice  said: 

"You're  a  good  witness,  Miss  Morganthau." 

It  was  that  fresh  kid  Babbitts  and  I  wasn't 
sorry  to  have  him  join  me  as  I  was  feeling  as 
if  Yd  been  sitting  in  a  tomb.  He  was  seri- 
ous too,  not  a  wink  about  him  now,  his  eyes 
on  the  ground,  his  hands  dug  down  in  the 
pockets  of  his  overcoat. 

"A  strange  case,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Awful  strange,"  I  answered. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  your  story  of  that  man  on 
the  'phone  I  think  they'd  arrest  Dr.  Fowler 
to-night." 

"Didn't  you  believe  what  he  said?" 

I  wasn't  going  to  give  away  my  thoughts 
any  more  than  I'd  been  willing  to  give  away 
what  I  heard  on  the  wire.  And  it  seemed  that 
he  was  the  same,  for  he  answered  slow  and 
thoughtful: 

"I'm  not  saying  what  I  believe  or  don't  be- 
lieve, or  maybe  it's  better  if  I  say  I'm  not 
ready  yet  to  believe  or  disbelieve  anything," — 

126 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

then  he  looked  up  at  the  sky,  red  behind  the 
trees,  and  spoke  easy  and  careless:  "They  say 
Miss  Hesketh  had  a  good  many  admirers." 

"Do  they?"  was  all  he  got  out  of  me. 

That  made  him  laugh,  jolly  and  boyish. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  keep  your  guard  up  now. 
Your  stuff'll  be  in  the  papers  to-morrow,  and, 
take  it  from  me,  that  fellow  that  sent  the  mes- 
sage is  going  to  get  a  jar." 

"The  man  I  listened  to?" 

"Sure.  He  hasn't  got  the  ghost  of  an  idea 
anyone  overheard  him.  Can't  you  imagine  how 
he'll  feel  when  he  opens  his  paper  and  sees 
that  a  smart  little  hello  girl  was  tapping  the 
wire?" 

It's  funny,  but  I'd  never  thought  of  it 
that  way.  Why,  he'd  get  a  shock  like  dyna- 
mite !  It  got  hold  of  me  so  that  I  didn't  speak 
for  a  spell,  thinking  of  that  man  reading  his 
paper  to-morrow — over  his  coffee  or  maybe 
going  down  in  the  L — and  suddenly  seeing 
printed  out  in  black  and  white  what  he  thought 
no  one  in  the  world  knew  except  himself  and 

127 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

that  poor  dead  girl.  Babbitts  went  on  talk- 
ing, me  listening  with  one  ear — which  comes 
natural  to  an  operator. 

"We've  been  rounding  up  all  the  men  that 
were  after  her — not  that  they  were  backward 
with  their  alibis — only  too  glad  to  be  of  service, 
thank  you!  Carisbrook  was  at  Aiken,  a  law- 
yer named  Dunham  was  up  state  trying  a 
case;  Robinson,  a  chap  in  a  bank,  was  spend- 
ing the  week-end  on  Long  Island.  There  was 
only  one  of  them  near  here — man  named 
Cokesbury.  Do  you  know  him?" 

Both  my  ears  got  busy. 

"Cokesbury,"  I  said,  sort  of  startled,  "was 
Cokesbury  at  the  Lodge  last  week?" 

"He  was  and  I  know  just  what  he  did." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

He  laughed  out  as  gay  as  you  please,  for  he 
saw  he'd  got  me  just  where  he  wanted. 

"When  I've  tried  to  find  out  things  from 
you  you've  turned  me  down." 

"Aw,  go  on,"  I  said  coaxing,  "don't  you 
know  by  experience  I'm  no  talking  machine 

128 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

to  give  out  every  word  that's  said  to 
me." 

"I  believe  you,"  he  answered,  "and  it'll  be 
good  for  your  character  for  me  to  set  a  gen- 
erous example.  Cokesbury  was  at  the  Lodge 
from  last  Saturday  on  the  one-ten  train  to 
last  Monday  on  the  eight-twenty." 

"Gee!"  I  said,  soft  to  myself. 

"You  can  quell  those  rising  hopes,"  he  re- 
plied. "He  wasn't  the  man  you  heard." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  hearing  that  he  was  a  friend  of 
Miss  Hesketh's,  I  spent  part  of  yesterday  at 
Azalea  and  found  that  Mr.  Cokesbury  can 
prove  as  good  an  alibi  as  any  of  them." 

"Did  you  see  him?" 

"No,  he  wasn't  there  and  if  he  had  been  I 
wouldn't  have  bothered  with  him.  I  saw  some- 
one much  better — Miner,  the  man  who  owns 
the  Azalea  Garage,  where  Cokesbury  puts  up 
his  car.  It  appears  that  the  trip  before  last 
Cokesbury  broke  his  axle  and  had  to  have 
his  car  towed  down  to  the  garage  and  left 

129 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

there  to  be  mended.  When  he  came  down  Sat- 
urday he  expected  it  to  be  done  and  when  it 
wasn't,  got  in  a  rage  and  raised  the  devil  of 
a  row.  He  had  to  go  out  to  his  place  in  one 
of  Miner's  cars  which  left  him  there  and  went 
back  for  him  Monday  morning." 

"Then  he  had  no  auto  on  Sunday." 

"Miss  Morganthau  will  take  the  head  of 
the  class,"  then  he  said,  low,  as  if  to  someone 
beside  him:  "She's  our  prize  pupil  but  we 
don't  say  it  before  her  face  for  fear  of  mak- 
ing her  proud,"  then  back  to  me  as  solemn 
as  a  priest  in  the  pulpit,  "That  is  the  situation 
reduced  to  its  lowest  terms — he  had  no  car." 

"Well  that  ends  him"  I  said. 

"So  it  seems  to  me.  In  fact  Cokesbury  gets 
the  gate.  I  won't  hide  from  you  now  that  I 
went  to  Azalea  because  I'd  heard  a  rumor  of 
that  talk  on  the  phone  and  thought  I'd  do  a 
little  private  sleuthing  on  my  own.  Didn't 
know  but  what  I  was  destined  to  be  the  Baby 
Grand  Burns." 

"And  nothing's  come  of  it." 
180 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Nothing,  except  that  it  drops  Cokesbury 
out  with  a  thud  that's  dull  and  sickening  for 
me,  but  you  can  bet  your  best  hat  it's  just  the 
opposite  for  him." 

"Well,  I  guess  yes,"  I  said  and  walked 
along  wondering  to  myself  whose  voice  that 
could  have  been. 


VIII 

A  FTER  the  inquest  there  was  no  more 
•*•  •*•  question  about  who  was  suspected.  It 
was  as  if  every  finger  in  Longwood  was  raised 
and  pointed  to  Mapleshade.  The  cautious 
people  didn't  say  it  plain — especially  the  shop- 
keepers who  were  afraid  of  losing  custom — 
but  those  who  had  nothing  to  gain  by  keeping 
still  came  out  with  it  flatfooted. 

It  wasn't  only  that  nobody  liked  the  Doctor, 
or  believed  his  story,  it  was  because  the  people 
were  wild  at  what  had  been  done.  They  want- 
ed to  find  the  murderer  and  put  him  behind 

.  < 

bars  and  seeing  that  things  pointed  more  clear- 
ly to  Dr.  Fowler  than  to  anybody  else  they 
pitched  on  him.  All  the  gossip  about  the  quar- 
reling came  out  blacker  than  ever.  The  pa- 
pers were  full  of  it  and  the  other  worse  stories, 

132 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

about  Sylvia's  allowance  and  the  will  of  her 
father.  There  wasn't  a  bit  of  dirty  linen  in 
the  Fowler  household  that  wasn't  washed  and 
hung  out  on  the  line  for  the  public  to  gape  at, 
and  some  of  it  was  dirtier  when  they'd  got 
through  washing  than  it  had  been  before. 

There  were  those  who  didn't  scruple  to  say 
that  the  whole  tragedy  was  a  frame-up  be- 
tween Virginie  Dupont  and  the  Doctor.  If 
you  talked  sensible  to  them  and  asked  them 
how  Virginie  could  have  got  word  to  him  that 
Sylvia  was  running  away,  they'd  just  push 
that  to  one  side,  saying  it  could  be  explained 
some  way,  everything  wasn't  known  yet — but 
one  thing  you  could  be  sure  of — the  one  per- 
son who  knew  the  whereabouts  of  that  French 
woman  was  Dr.  Daniel  Fowler. 

I  believe  there  were  some  days  after  the 
inquest  when,  if  there'd  been  an  anarchist  or 
agitator  to  stand  on  the  postoffice  steps  and 
yell  that  Dr.  Fowler  ought  to  be  jailed,  a 
crowd  would  have  gathered,  gone  down  to 
Mapleshade,  and  demanded  him. 

133 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Fortunately  there  was  no  one  of  that  kind 
around,  and  he  stayed  quiet  in  his  home,  not 
even  coming  to  the  village.  Two  days  after 
the  inquest  I  saw  Anne  and  she  said  he  and 
Mrs.  Fowler  hadn't  been  out  of  the  house — 
that  they  were  in  a  state  of  siege  what  with  re- 
porters and  the  police  and  morbid  cranks  who 
hung  round  the  grounds  looking  up  at  the 
windows. 

That  same  evening  I  stayed  over  time  in  the 
Exchange,  lending  a  hand.  The  work  was 
something  awful,  and  Katie  Reilly,  the  new 
girl,  was  most  snowed  under  and  on  the  way 
to  lose  her  head.  I  wanted  to  see  her  through 
and  I  wanted  the  credit  of  the  office  kept  up, 
but  it's  also  true  that  I  wanted  to  be  on  the  job 
myself  and  hear  all  that  was  passing.  Believe 
me,  it  was  hard  to  quiet  down  in  my  bedroom 
at  night  after  eight  hours  at  the  switchboard 
right  in  the  thick  of  the  excitement.  Besides, 
I'd  got  to  know  the  reporters  pretty  well  and 
it  was  fun  making  them  think  I  could  give 
them  leads  and  then  guying  them. 

184 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I  liked  Babbitts  the  best,  but  there  were 
three  others  that  weren't  bad  as  men  go.  One 
was  Jones,  a  tall  thin  chap  like  an  actor,  with 
long  black  hair  hanging  down  to  his  collar,  and 
Freddy  Jasper,  who  was  English  and  talked 
with  an  awful  swell  dialect,  and  a  sallow- 
skinned,  consumpted-looking  guy  called  Yer- 
rington  who  belonged  on  a  paper  as  yellow  as 
his  face  and  always  went  round  with  a  cigar- 
ette hanging  from  his  lip  like  it  was  stuck  on 
with  glue. 

It  was  nearly  eight  and  work  was  slacking 
off  when  I  started  to  go  home.  What  with  the 
jump  I'd  been  on  and  listening  to  the  gabbing 
round  the  door  I'd  forgotten  my  supper.  It 
wasn't  till  I  saw  the  Gilt  Edge  window  with  a 
nice  pile  of  apples  stacked  up  round  a  pump- 
kin, that  I  remembered  I  was  hungry  and 
walked  over.  There  were  only  three  people  in 
the  place,  Florrie  Stein,  the  waitress,  and  a 
woman  with  a  kid  in  the  corner. 

I  was  just  finishing  my  corn  beef  hash  with 
a  cup  of  coffee  at  my  elbow  and  stewed  prunes 

185 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

on  the  line  of  promotion  when  Soapy  and 
Jones  and  Jasper  came  in  and  asked  me  if 
they  could  sit  at  my  table.  "Please  yourself," 
said  I,  "and  you'll  please  me,"  for  politeness 
is  one  of  the  things  I  was  bred  up  to,  and  they 
sat  down,  calling  out  their  orders  to  Florrie 
Stein. 

They  naturally  began  talking  about  "the 
case" — it  was  all  anybody  talked  about  just 
then — and  for  all  I  knew  so  much  about  it,  I 
generally  picked  up  some  new  bits  from  them. 
So  I  went  to  the  extravagance  of  three  cents 
worth  of  jelly  roll,  not  because  I  wanted  it, 
but  because  I  could  crumb  it  up  and  eat  it  slow 
and  not  give  away  I  was  sitting  on  to  listen. 

"We  can  talk  before  you,  Miss  Morgan- 
thau,"  said  Babbitts,  "because  while  we  all 
agree  you're  the  belle  of  Longwood,  we've 
found  out  by  sad  experience  you're  a  belle 
without  a  tongue." 

Florrie  Stein,  bringing  the  food  then,  they 
were  silent  till  she'd  set  it  out,  and  when  she'd 
drawn  off  to  the  cashier's  desk,  they  started 

186 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

in  again.     They  were,  so  to  speak,  looking 
over  Hines  as  a  suspect. 

"No,  Hines  won't  fit,"  said  Babbitts.  "The 
presence  of  the  jewelry  on  the  body  eliminates 
him.  They've  dug  up  his  record  and  though 
the  place  he  ran  wasn't  to  be  recommended  for 
Sunday  school  picnics,  the  man  himself  seems 
to  have  been  fairly  decent." 

"It's  odd  about  the  bag — the  fitted  bag  and 
the  jewelry  gone  from  the  room,"  said  Jasper. 

"The  police  have  an  idea  that  Virginie  Du- 
pont  could  tell  something  of  them." 

"Theft?" 

"Theft  on  the  side." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  said  Jones,  "what's  the  good 
of  complicating  things?  If  theft  was  commit- 
ted it  was  a  frame-up,  part  of  a  plot." 

"You  believe  in  this  idea  they've  got  in  the 
village  that  Fowler  and  the  French  woman 
worked  together?" 

"I  do — to  my  mind  the  murderer's  marked 
as  plain  as  Cain  after  he  was  branded  on  the 
brow  or  wherever  it  was." 

187 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Then  Jasper  spoke  up.  He's  a  nice  quiet 
chap,  not  as  fresh  as  the  others.  "Let's  hear 
what  you  base  that  assertion  on." 

Jones  forgot  his  supper  and  twisted  round 
sideways  in  his  chair,  looking  thoughtful  up 
at  the  cornice : 

"As  I  understand  it,  in  a  murder  two  things 
are  necessary — a  crime  and  a  corpse;  and  in  a 
murderer  one,  a  motive.  Now  we  have  all 
three — the  motive  especially  strong.  If  Miss 
Hesketh  married,  her  stepfather  lost  his  home 
and  the  money  he  had  been  living  on,  so  he 
tried  to  stop  her  from  marrying.  Saturday 
night  he  heard  that  his  efforts  had  failed.  I 
fancy  that  on  Sunday  morning  when  he  went 
for  that  auto  drive  he  stopped  at  some  village 
—not  as  yet  located — and  communicated  with 
Virginie  Dupont,  who  was  in  his  pay.  She, 
too,  went  out  that  morning,  you  may  remem- 
ber." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  surmise  about  this," 
said  Babbitts. 

Jones  gave  him  a  scornful  look. 
188 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"If  the  links  in  the  chain  were  perfect  Dr. 
Fowler'd  be  eating  his  dinner  to-night  in 
Bloomington  Jail." 

"How  do  you  account  for  Miss  Hesketh — 
presupposing  it  was  she — being  on  the  train 
instead  of  the  turnpike?"  said  Jasper. 

"A  change  of  plans,"  Jones  answered  calm- 
ly, "also  not  yet  satisfactorily  cleared  up.  To 
continue:  Sometime  on  Sunday  the  Doctor 
conceived  the  plan  of  ridding  himself  of  all 
his  cares — his  troublesome  stepdaughter,  the 
disturbance  of  his  home  and  his  financial  dis- 
tress. How''  he  turned  and  looked  solemnly 
at  us,  fate  played  so  well  into  his  hands  I  can't 
yet  explain — the  main  point  is  that  it  did.  He 
met  Miss  Hesketh  at  the  Junction,  either  by 
threats,  persuasion  or  coercion  made  her  enter 
his  auto  and  carried  her  up  the  road  to  the 
turnpike." 

"And  now,"  said  Babbitts,  leaning  his  arms 
on  the  table,  "we  come  to  her  appearance  in 
the  Wayside  Arbor." 

"We  do,"  Jones  replied,  nodding  his  head. 
139 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"You  may  remember  that  both  Hines  and  his 
servant  said  there  were  twigs  and  leaves  on  the 
edge  of  her  skirt  and  that  her  boots  were  mud- 
dy. Traces  of  this  were  still  visible  in  her 
clothes  when  they  found  her  body.  She  did 
get  out  of  the  automobile,  but  not  so  far  from 
the  turnpike  as  he  said.  Either  he  and  she  had 
some  fierce  quarrel  and  she  ran  from  him  in 
rage  or  terror,  or  he  may  have  told  the  truth 
and  she  slipped  out  at  the  turn  from  the  Riven 
Rock  Road  without  his  knowledge.  Anyway 
she  got  away  from  him  and  ran  for  the 
only  light  she  saw.  There  she  telephoned 
Reddy,  withholding  the  main  facts  from  him, 
perhaps  merely  to  save  time,  but  caution- 
ing him  against  letting  anyone  know  of 
the  message.  That,  as  I  see  it,  was  a  nat- 
ural feminine  desire  to  guard  against  gos- 
sip. When  she  thought  Reddy  was  due  she 
started  out  to  meet  him — and  instead  met  the 
Doctor." 

"Who'd  been  hanging  about  for  a  half-hour 
on  the  roadside?" 

140 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Precisely.  He  killed  her,  concealed  the 
body,  and  went  home." 

"Just  a  minute,"  said  Yerrington — "what 
did  he  kill  her  with?  The  weapon  used 
is  a  disputed  point.  Many  think  it  was 
a  farm  implement.  Did  he  go  across 
lots  to  Cresset's  and  arm  himself  with  a 
convenient  spade  or  rake  for  the  fath- 
erly purpose  of  slaying  his  stepdaugh- 
ter?" 

But  you  couldn't  phase  Jones,  he  said  as 
calm  as  a  May  morning: 

"He  could  have  done  that.  But  I  don't 
think  he  did.  He  didn't  need  it.  The  tool 
box  of  the  car  was  nearer  to  hand.  A  large- 
sized  auto  wrench  is  a  pretty  formidable  weap- 
on, and  a  tire  wrench — did  you  ever  see  one? 
One  well-aimed  blow  of  that  would  crush  in 
the  head  of  a  negro." 

"Gentlemen,  the  evidence  is  all  in,"  said 
Babbitts. 

"Your  case  might  hold  water,"  said  Jasper, 
"if  it  wasn't  as  full  of  holes  as  a  sieve.  Why, 

141 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

you  can  make  out  as  good  a  one  for  almost 
anybody." 

"Who,  for  example?"  Jones  asked. 

"Well— take  Reddy." 

"Jack  Reddy?"  I  said  that,  sitting  up  sud- 
denly and  staring  at  them  with  a  piece  of  jelly 
roll  halfway  to  my  mouth. 

"He's  as  good  as  another,"  said  Jasper,  and 
then  he  added  sort  of  dreamy:  "I  believe  I 
could  work  up  quite  a  convincing  case  against 
Reddy,  allowing  for  a  hole  here  and  there. 
But  our  illustrious  friend  here  admits  holes 
at  this  stage." 

"Fire  away,"  said  Babbitts.  "Give  it  to  us, 
holes  and  all." 

"Well — off  the  bat  here  it  is.  You  may 
remember  that  no  one  saw  him  coming  back 
from*  Maple  Lane  that  night.  There  is  no  one, 
therefore,  to  deny  that  he  may  have  had  Miss 
Hesketh  in  the  car  with  him.  Instead  of  go- 
ing back  to  Firehill,  as  he  says  he  did,  he  fol- 
lowed his  original  plan  of  taking  her  by  the 
turnpike." 

142 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

"Right  at  the  start  I  challenge  that,"  said 
Babbitts.  "She  appeared  at  the  Wayside  Ar- 
bor at  nine-thirty.  The  date  in  Maple  Lane 
was  for  seven.  Supposing  she  kept  it  and  was 
on  time — which  is  a  stretch  of  the  imagination 
—he  would  have  had  to  travel  one  hundred 
and  eighteen  miles  in  twro  hours  and  a  half." 

"He  could  have  done  it." 

"On  a  black,  dark  night?  nearly  forty- 
eight  miles  an  hour?" 

"You  forget  he  knew  the  road  and  was 
driving  a  high-powered  racing  car.  It's  im- 
probable but  not  impossible." 

"I  count  that  as  a  hole,  but  go  on." 

"Now  in  this  hypothetical  case  we'll  suppose 
that  as  that  car  flew  over  the  miles  the  man 
and  the  woman  in  it  had  high  words?" 

"Hold  on,"  said  Jones,  holding  out  his  fork 

-"that's  too  big  a  hole.  They  were  lovers 
eloping,  not  an  old  married  couple." 

"I'll  explain  that  later.  The  high  words  in- 
flamed and  enraged  the  man  to  the  point  of 
murder  and  he  conceived  a  horrible  plan.  As 

143 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

they  neared  the  Wayside  Arbor  he  told  the 
woman  something  was  wrong  with  the  car  and 
sent  her  to  the  place  ostensibly  to  telephone, 
really  to  establish  her  presence  there  at  a  time 
when,  had  she  been  with  him,  she  could  hardly 
have  got  that  far." 

I  jumped  in  there.  I  knew  it  was  only  fool- 
ing, but  even  so  I  didn't  like  hearing  Mr. 
Reddy  talked  about  that  way. 

"Who  did  he  send  her  to  telephone  to,  Mr. 
Jasper — himself  ?" 

Babbitts  laughed  and  jerked  his  head  to- 
ward me. 

"Listen  to  our  little  belle  sounding  the  cur- 
few on  Jasper." 

But  Mr.  Jasper  was  ready. 

"He  could  have  done  that,  knowing  his 
house  was  empty.  Hines,  you  remember,  said 
she  wasn't  five  minutes  in  the  booth.  We've 
only  Reddy's  word  for  that  message.  We 
don't  even  know  if  she  got  a  connection.  I 
telephoned  out  to  the  Corona  operator  Satur- 
day and  she  answered  that  there  was  no  rec- 

144 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

ord  of  the  message  and  she  herself  remem- 
bered nothing  about  it." 

"But  Sylvia,"  I  said— "she  told  Hines  she 
was  expecting  someone  to  come  for  her." 

"Sylvia  was  eloping.  Mightn't  she  have 
told  Hines — who  was  curious  and  intrusive — 
what  wasn't  true?" 

A  sort  of  hush  fell  on  us  all.  Babbitts's  face 
and  Jones's,  from  being  just  amused,  were  in- 
tent and  interested. 

"Go  ahead,  Jasper,"  said  Babbitts,  "if  this 
isn't  buying  the  baby  a  frock  it's  good  yarn- 
ing." 

Jasper  went  on. 

"Her  story  of  the  broken  automobile  she 
believed  to  be  true.  But  she  didn't  want  Hines 
to  know  who  she  was  or  what  she  was  up  to, 
so  she  invented  the  person  coming  to  take  her 
home.  Why  she  sat  so  long  there  talking  is — 
I'll  admit — a  hole,  but  I  said  in  the  beginning 
there  would  be  some.  The  end  is  just  like  the 
end  of  Jones's  case.  She  went  back  to  Reddy 
and  he  killed  her  with,  as  our  friend  has  sug- 

145 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

gested,  one  of  the  auto  tools.  Very  soon  af- 
ter it  would  have  been  as  that  Bohemian— 
what's  hername  ? — heard  the  scream  at  ten-ten." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Jones,  "but  be- 
fore we  go  further  I'd  like  you  to  furnish  us 
with  a  motive." 

"Nothing  easier — jealousy." 

"Jealousy!"  I  said,  sudden  and  sharp. 

"Jealousy  in  its  most  violent  form.  The 
lady  in  this  case  was  a  peculiar  type — a  nat- 
ural born  siren.  She  had  made  the  man  jeal- 
ous, furiously  jealous.  That  was  the  reason 
of  the  high  words  in  the  motor." 

"Who  was  he  jealous  of?"  It  was  I  again 
who  asked  that. 

Jasper  turned  round  and  looked  at  me  with 
a  smile. 

"Why,  Miss  Morganthau,"  he  said,  "you 
gave  us  the  clue  to  that.  He  was  jealous  of 
the  man  who  made  the  date  you  heard  on  the 
phone.  Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  others,  "that  man  kept  his  date  and  Reddy 
came  and  found  him  there." 

146 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

I  can't  tell  what  it  was  that  fell  on  us  and 
made  us  sit  so  still  for  a  minute.  All  of  us 
knew  it  was  just  a  joke,  but — for  me,  anyway 
—it  was  as  if  a  cloud  had  settled  on  the  room. 
Babbitts  sat  smoking  a  cigarette  and  staring 
at  the  rings  he  was  making  with  his  eyes 
screwed  up.  Presently,  when  Jones  spoke,  his 
voice  had  a  sound  like  his  pride  was  taken 
down. 

"A  great  deal  better  than  I  expected,  but 
it's  simply  riddled  with  holes." 

Before  Jasper  could  answer  the  door  opened 
and  Yerrington  came  in.  The  cigarette  was 
hanging  off  his  lip  and  as  he  said  "Good  even- 
ing" to  me  it  wobbled  but  clung  on.  Then 
he  pulled  out  a  chair,  sat  down  and,  looking  at 
the  other  three  with  a  gleam  in  his  eye,  said: 

"A  little  while  ago  Dr.  Fowler's  chauffeur 
in  dusting  out  his  car  found  the  gold  mesh 
purse  squeezed  down  between  the  back  and  the 
cushion." 


IX 

r  |iHE  finding  of  the  gold  purse  established 
•••  the  fact  that  part,  anyway,  of  the  Doc- 
tor's story  was  true — the  woman  who  had  gone 
down  to  the  junction  and  then  disappeared  had 
disappeared  in  his  auto.  Was  she  Sylvia  Hes- 
keth? 

The  general  verdict  was  yes — Sylvia  Hes- 
keth,  for  some  unknown  reason,  running  away 
from  her  lover  and  her  home.  All  the  world 
knew  now  that  she  was  wild  and  unstable,  a 
girl  that  might  take  any  whim  into  her 
head  and  act  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
There  were  theories  to  burn  why  she 
should  have  thrown  down  Reddy  and  slipped 
away  alone,  but  those  that  knew  her  said 
she  was  a  law  unto  herself  and  let  it  go  at 
that. 

148 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

The  morning  after  that  supper  in  the 
Gilt  Edge,  Anne  came  in  to  do  the  mar- 
keting and  stopped  at  the  Exchange.  The 
room  was  empty  but  even  so  I  had  to 
whisper : 

"Are  they  going  to  arrest  the  Doctor?" 

"He's  waiting,"  she  whispered  back. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"What  I  always  have.  I  think  the  woman 
was  Virginie.  I  think  she  took  Sylvia's  things 
and  lit  out  on  her  own  account." 

"What  does  Mrs.  Fowler  say?" 

"She's  going  to  offer  a  reward  for  the  mur- 
derer. That's  her  way  of  answering.  This 
last  seems  to  have  roused  her.  She  knows 
now  it's  going  to  be  a  fight  for  her  husband's 
liberty,  perhaps  his  life.  She's  employing  Mills 
and  some  other  detectives  and  she  keeps  in 
close  touch  with  them." 

The  next  day  the  reward  was  made  public. 
It  was  in  all  the  papers  and  nailed  up  at  the 
depot  and  in  the  postoffice,  the  words  printed 
in  black,  staring  letters : 

149 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS  REWARD! 

TO  ANYONE  DISCOVERING  THE  MURDERER  OF  THE 
LATE  SYLVIA  HESKETH,  THIS  SUM  WILL  BE  PAID 
BY  HER  MOTHER,  CONSTANCE  GREY  FOWLER, 
MAPLESHADE,  NEW  JERSEY. 

Late  that  afternoon  Babbitts  came  into  the 
office.  He  was  staying  at  the  Longwood  Inn, 
but  it  was  the  first  time  that  day  I'd  seen  him 
and  after  our  supper  together  I'd  begun  to 
feel  real  chummy  with  him.  Contrary  to  his 
usual  custom  he  was  short  and  preoccupied, 
giving  me  a  number  without  more  words  and 
then  banging  shut  the  door  of  the  booth.  It 
got  me  a  little  riled  and  seeing  he  wasn't  wast- 
ing any  manners  I  didn't  see  why  I  should,  so 
I  lifted  the  cam  and  quietly  listened  in. 
Not  that  I  expected  to  hear  anything 
very  private.  The  number  he'd  given  was  his 
paper. 

The  chap  at  the  other  end  had  a  way  of 
grunting,  "I  got  you,"  no  matter  what  was 
said.  I'd  heard  him  before  and  he  had  a  most 
unnatural  sort  of  patience  about  him,  as  if 

150 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

his  spirit  was  broken  forever  taking  messages 
off  a  wire. 

"Say,"  says  Babbitts,  "I  got  a  new  lead — 
up  country  near  Hines'  place.  I  been  there  all 
morning.  There's  a  farm  up  that  way.  Cres- 
set's"— he  spelled  the  name  and  the  other  one 
did  his  usual  stunt — "Good  people,  years  on 
the  soil,  self-respecting,  stand  high.  Their 
house  is  about  half  a  mile  across  woods  and 
fields  from  the  Wayside  Arbor,  lonely  with  a 
bad  bit  of  road  leading  up  from  the  pike.  Do 
you  hear?" 

"Get  on,"  said  the  voice. 

"I  stopped  in  there  and  had  a  seance  with 
Mrs.  Cresset,  nice  woman,  fat  with  a  white 
apron.  I  said  I  was  a  tourist  thirsting  for  a 
drink  of  milk." 

The  other  one  seemed  to  rouse  up.  "Did 
you  thirst  that  bad?" 

"For  information — and  I  got  it.  She's  been 
scared  of  the  notoriety  and  has  held  back 
something  which  seems  important.  Her  hus- 
band's been  prying  her  up  to  the  point  of  go- 

151 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

ing  to  the  District  Attorney  and  she's  agreed, 
but  tried  it  on  me  first.    Do  you  hear?" 
"I  got  you." 

"The  night  of  the  murder,  about  nine,  a 
man  knocked  at  her  door  saying  he'd  lost  his 
way  and  wanting  to  know  where  he  was,  and 
how  to  get  to  the  turnpike.  She  spoke  to  him 
from  an  upper  window  and  couldn't  see  his 
face,  the  night  being  dark.  All  she  could  make 
out  was  that  he  was  large  and  wore  an  over- 
coat. He  told  her  his  auto  was  in  the  road 
back  of  him  and  he'd  got  mixed  up  in 
the  country  lanes.  The  thing's  funny,  as 
there  are  very  few  roads  that  side  of  the 
pike." 

"Hold  on — what's  that  about  pike?" 
Babbitts  repeated  it  and  went  on: 
"Doesn't  appear  to  have  been  in  the  least 
drunk — perfectly  sober  and  spoke  like  a  gen- 
tleman.   She  gave  him  the  direction  and  here's 
what  caught  me — describes  his  voice  as  very 
deep,  rich  and  pleasant,  almost  the  same  words 
the  Longwood  telephone  girl  used  to  describe 

152 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

the  voice  she  overheard  speaking  to  Miss  Hes- 
keth  Saturday  noon." 

"Any  more?" 

"Impossible  to  identify  man  but  says  she'd 
know  the  voice  again.  He  thanked  her  very 
politely — she  couldn't  lay  enough  stress  on 
how  good  his  manners  were — and  she  heard  him 
walk  away,  splashing  through  the  mud." 

There  were  a  few  ending-up  sentences  that 
gave  me  time  to  pull  out  a  novel  and  settle 
down  over  it.  I  seemed  so  buried  in  it  that 
when  Babbitts  put  down  his  money  I  never 
raised  my  eyes,  just  swept  the  coin  into  the 
drawer  and  turned  a  page.  He  didn't  move, 
leaning  against  the  switchboard  and  not  say- 
ing a  word.  With  him  standing  there  so  close 
I  got  nervous  and  had  to  look  up,  and  as  soon 
as  I  did  it  he  made  a  motion  with  his  hand  for 
me  to  lift  my  headpiece. 

"If  two  heads  are  better  than  one,"  he  said, 
"two  ears  must  be;  and  the  words  I  am  about 
to  utter  should  be  fully  heard  to  be  appreci- 
ated." 

153 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Of  course  I  thought  he  was  going  to  tell  me 
what  he'd  found  out  at  Cresset's.  It  made  me 
feel  proud,  being  confided  in  by  a  newspa- 
per man,  and  I  pushed  up  my  headpiece,  all 
smiling  and  ready  to  be  smart  and  helpful.  He 
didn't  smile  back  but  looked  and  spoke  as  sol- 
emn as  an  undertaker. 

"Miss  Morganthau,  yours  is  a  very  seden- 
tary occupation." 

Believe  me  I  got  a  jolt. 

"If  you're  asking  me  to  violate  the  rules  for 
that,"  I  answered,  "you're  taking  more  upon 
yourself  than  I'll  overlook  from  a  child  re- 
porter with  a  head  of  hair  like  the  Fair  Cir- 
cassian in  Barnum  &  Bailey's." 

"I  speak  only  as  one  concerned  for  your 
health.  A  walk  after  business  hours  should  be 
the  invariable  practice  of  those  whose  work 
forbids  exercise." 

"Thank  you  for  your  interest,"  says  I,  very 
haughty,  "but  it's  well  to  look  at  home  before 
we  search  abroad.  The  man  who  spends  all  his 
time  riding  in  autos  at  the  expense  of  the  Press 

154 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

would  be  better  employed  exercising  his  own 
limbs  than  directing  those  of  others.  So  start 
right  along  and  walk  quick." 

He  didn't  budge,  but  says  slow  and  thought- 
ful: 

"Your  remarks,  Miss  Morganthau,  are  al- 
ways to  the  point.  I'm  going  to  take  a  walk 
this  evening — say  about  seven-thirty." 

"I  hope  you'll  enjoy  it,"  says  I.  "As  for 
me,  I'm  going  straight  home  to  rest.  I  need 
it,  what  with  my  work  and  the  ginks  that  stand 
round  here  taking  up  my  time  and  running 
the  risk  of  getting  me  fired" — the  door  handle 
clicked.  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  and  saw 
a  man  coming  in.  "Which  way?"  I  says  in  a 
whisper. 

"Down  Maple  Lane,"  he  whispers  back,  and 
I  was  in  front  of  my  board  with  my  headpiece 
in  place  when  the  man  came  in. 

We  walked  up  and  down  Maple  Lane  for 
an  hour,  and  it  may  amuse  you  to  know  that 
what  that  simple  guy  wanted  was  to  tell  me  to 
listen  to  every  voice  on  my  wires. 

155 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I  looked  at  him  calm  and  pitiful.  Me,  that 
had  been  listening  till,  if  your  ears  grow  with 
exercise,  mine  ought  to  have  been  long  enough 
to  tie  in  a  true  lover's  knot  on  top  of  my  head  1 

There's  a  wonderful  innocence  about  men 
in  some  ways.  It  makes  you  feel  sorry  for 
them,  like  they  were  helpless  children. 

Then  he  capped  the  climax  by  telling  me 
about  Mrs.  Cresset  that  morning — hadn't 
thought  I'd  heard  a  word.  And  as  he  told  it, 
believing  so  honest  that  I  didn't  know,  I  be- 
gan to  feel  kind  of  cheap  as  if  I'd  lied  to  some- 
one who  couldn't  have  thought  I'd  do  such  a 
thing.  I  didn't  tell  him  the  truth — I  was  too 
ashamed — but  I  made  a  vow  no  matter  how 
sly  I  was  to  the  others  I'd  be  on  the  square 
with  Babbitts.  And  I'll  say  right  here  that 
I've  made  good  resolutions  and  broken  them, 
but  that  one  I've  kept. 

There's  a  little  hill  part  way  along  the  Lane 
where  the  road  slopes  down  toward  the  en- 
trance of  Mapleshade.  We  stopped  here  and 
looked  back  at  the  house  lying  long  and  dark 

156 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

among  its  dark  trees.  The  sky  was  bright  with 
stars  and  by  their  light  you  could  see  the  black 
patches  of  the  woods  and  here  and  there  a 
paler  stretch  where  the  land  was  bare  and 
open.  It  was  all  shadowy  and  gloomy  except 
where  the  windows  shone  out  in  bright  orange 
squares.  I  pointed  out  to  Babbitts  where  Syl- 
via's windows  wrere,  not  a  light  in  them;  and 
then,  at  the  end  of  the  wing,  four  or  five  in  a 
row  that  belonged  to  Mrs.  Fowler's  suite.  Her 
sitting-room  was  one  of  them  where  Anne 
had  told  me  she  and  the  Doctor  always  sat  in 
the  evenings. 

"They're  there  now,"  I  said.  "What  do  you 
suppose  they're  doing?" 

"Search  me,"  said  Babbitts,  "I  can't  answer 
for  another  man,  but  if  I  was  in  the  Doctor's 
shoes  I'd  be  pacing  up  and  down,  with  my 
Circassian  Beauty  hair  turning  white  while  you 
waited." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  nodding.  "I'll  bet  that's  what 
he's  doing.  I  can  see  them,  surrounded  by 
their  riches,  jumping  every  time  there's  a 

157 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

knock  on  the  door,  thinking  that  the  summons 
has  come." 

And  that  shows  you  how  you  never  can 
tell.  For  at  that  hour  in  that  room  the  Doc- 
tor and  Mrs.  Fowler  were  talking  to  Wal- 
ter Mills,  who  had  just  come  from  Philadel- 
phia, bringing  them  the  first  ray  of  hope 
they'd  had  since  the  tragedy.  It  was  in  the 
form  of  a  diamond  and  ruby  lavalliere  that 
he  had  found  the  day  before  in  a  pawn  shop 
and  that  Mrs.  Fowler  had  identified  as 
Sylvia's. 

Four  days  later  a  piece  of  news  ran  like 
wildfire  through  Longwood:  Virginie  Du- 
pont  had  been  arrested  and  brought  to  Bloom- 
ington. 

They  put  her  in  jail  there  and  it  didn't  take 
any  third  degree  to  get  the  truth  out  of  her. 
She  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  for  she  was 
caught  with  the  goods,  all  the  lost  jewelry 
being  found  in  the  place  where  she  was  hiding. 
It  sent  her  to  the  penitentiary,  and  her  lover, 
too,  for  whom — anyway  she  said  so — she  had 

158 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

robbed  Sylvia's  Ilesketh's  room  on  the  night 
that  Sylvia  Hesketh  disappeared. 

If  her  story  threw  no  light  on  the  murder 
it  exonerated  the  Doctor,  for  it  fitted  at  every 
point  with  what  he  had  said. 

I'll  write  it  down  here,  not  in  her  words,  but 
as  I  got  it  from  the  papers. 

For  some  time  she  had  been  planning  to  rob 
Sylvia,  but  was  waiting  for  a  good  opportu- 
nity. This  came,  when  the  Doctor,  being  out 
of  the  house,  she  discovered  that  an  elopement 
was  on  foot.  She  had  read  Sylvia's  letters, 
which  were  thrown  carelessly  about,  and  knew 
of  the  affair  with  Jack  Reddy,  and  when  on 
Sunday  morning  she  was  sent  to  the  village  to 
get  a  letter  from  Reddy  she  guessed  what  it 
was.  Before  giving  it  to  Sylvia  she  went  to 
her  own  room,  opened  the  envelope  with  steam 
from  a  kettle,  and  read  it.  Then  she  knew 
that  her  chance  had  come. 

When  evening  drew  on  she  hung  about  the 
halls  and  saw  Sylvia  leave  at  a  few  minutes 
past  six,  carrying  the  fitted  bag.  The  coast 

159 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

being  clear,  she  went  to  her  room,  took  an  old 
black  bag  of  her  own  and  stole  back.  It  was 
while  she  was  getting  this  bag  that  the  idea 
came  to  her  of  impersonating  her  mistress,  as 
in  that  way  she  could  steal  some  clothes.  She 
secured  the  jewelry  in  a  pocket  hanging  from 
her  waist,  took  some  false  hair  that  Sylvia 
wore  when  the  weather  was  damp,  and  cov- 
ered her  head  with  it,  and  selected  a  little  auto- 
mobile hat  of  which  there  were  several,  over 
all  tying  a  figured  black  lace  veil. 

What  she  particularly  wanted  was  a  new 
Hudson  seal  coat  that  had  been  delivered  a 
few  days  before.  No  one  but  herself  and 
Miss  Hesketh  knew  of  this  coat  as  there  had 
been  so  much  quarreling  about  Sylvia's  ex- 
travagance, that  the  girl  often  bought  clothes 
without  telling.  After  putting  it  on  she  filled 
her  bag  with  things  from  the  bureau  drawers, 
and  just  as  she  was  leaving  saw  the  gold  mesh 
purse  on  the  dresser  and  snatched  it  up. 

All  this  was  done  like  lightning  and  she 
thinks  she  left  the  house  not  more  than  twenty 

160 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

or  twenty-five  minutes  after  Sylvia.  To  catch 
the  train  she  had  to  hurry  and  she  ran  up  Ma- 
ple Lane  behind  the  hedge.  She  was  nearing 
the  village  when  she  heard  the  whirr  of  an  auto 
and  through  the  hedge  saw  the  two  big  head- 
lights of  a  car,  coming  slowly  down  the  Lane. 
For  a  moment  she  paused,  peeking  through  the 
branches  and  made  out  that  there  was  only  one 
person  in  it,  Jack  Reddy. 

She  reached  the  station  only  a  few  minutes 
before  the  train  came  in.  As  she  had  a  ticket, 
she  stood  at  the  dark  end  of  the  platform,  not 
moving  into  the  light  till  the  engine  was  draw- 
ing near.  Then  Jim  Donahue  saw  her  and 
came  up,  addressing  her  as  Miss  Hesketh.  She 
had  often  tried  to  imitate  Sylvia's  voice  and  ac- 
cent which  she  thought  very  elegant,  and  she 
did  so  now,  speaking  carefully  and  seeing  that 
Jim  had  no  doubt  of  her  identity.  On  the  ride 
to  the  Junction  she  had  only  murmured  "Good 
evening"  to  Sands,  being  afraid  to  say  more. 

At  the  Junction  she  was  going  to  get  off, 
take  the  branch  line  to  Hazelmere  and  trans- 

161 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

fer  there  to  the  Philadelphia  Express.  In  the 
women's  waiting-room,  which  would  probably 
be  deserted  at  that  hour,  she  intended  taking 
off  Sylvia's  coat  and  hair  and  reappearing  as 
the  modest  and  insignificant  lady's  maid. 
She  had  thought  this  out  in  the  afternoon,  de- 
ciding that  Sylvia  would  probably  communi- 
cate with  her  mother  in  the  morning  and  that 
the  theft  would  then  be  discovered.  Inquiries 
started  for  the  woman  who  had  been  seen  on 
the  train  would  lead  to  nothing,  as  that  woman 
would  have  dropped  out  of  sight  at  the  Junc- 
tion. 

Everything  worked  without  a  hitch.  The 
waiting-room  was  empty  and  she  had  ample 
time  to  take  off  the  hair  and  put  it  in  the  bag, 
hang  the  coat  over  her  arm  with  the  lining 
turned  out,  and  even  pinch  the  small,  soft  hat 
into  another  shape.  No  one  would  have 
thought  the  woman  who  went  into  the  waiting- 
room  was  the  woman  who  came  out. 

And  then  came  the  first  mishap — as  she 
opened  the  door  she  stepped  almost  into  Dr. 

162 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Fowler.  She  was  terror  stricken,  but  even 
then  neither  her  luck  nor  her  wits  left  her,  for 
almost  the  first  sentence  he  uttered  showed  her 
that  he  knew  of  the  elopement  and  gave  her  a 
lead  what  to  say.  She  must  have  been  a  pretty 
nervy  woman  the  way  she  jumped  at  that  lead. 
Right  off  the  bat  she  invented  the  story  about 
being  sent  by  Sylvia  to  Philadelphia — to  wait 
there  at  the  Bellevue-Stratford. 

The  Doctor  was  furious  and  ordered  her 
into  his  auto.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
obey  and  in  she  got,  sitting  in  the  back.  As 
she  was  stepping  up,  he  close  beside  her, 
she  remembered  the  gold  mesh  purse  plain 
in  her  hand.  Like  a  flash  she  bent  forward 
and  jammed  it  down  between  the  back  and 
seat. 

The  ride  up  the  Riven  Rock  Road  was  just 
as  the  Doctor  described  it.  It  was  after  the 
lamp  had  been  broken  and  he  was  back  in  the 
car  starting  it  up,  that  she  slipped  out.  She 
was  determined  to  get  away  with  all  her  loot 
and  took  the  bag  and  coat  with  her,  but  be- 

163 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

tween  the  hurry  and  fear  of  the  moment  for- 
got the  purse. 

She  wandered  through  the  woods  till  she  saw 
a  small  scattering  of  lights  which  she  took 
for  one  of  the  branch  line  stations.  When  the 
dawn  came  she  had  lost  some  of  her  nerve 
and  felt  it  was  too  risky  to  carry  the  extra 
things.  So  she  hid  them  at  the  root  of  a  tree, 
took  off  the  hat,  tying  the  veil  over  her  head, 
and  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  station.  As 
it  was  Monday  morning  there  were  a  lot  of 
laborers,  men  and  women,  on  the  platform. 
She  mingled  with  them,  looking  like  them 
in  her  muddy  clothes  and  tied  up  head,  and 
got  away  to  Hazelmere  without  being  no- 
ticed. 

She  was  feeling  safe  in  her  furnished  room 
in  Philadelphia  when  she  read  of  the  murder 
in  the  papers.  That  scared  her  almost  to  death 
and  she  lay  as  close  as  a  rabbit  in  a  burrow, 
afraid  to  go  out  and  cooking  her  food  on  a  gas 
ring.  It  was  the  man  she  had  stolen  for  who 
gave  her  away.  When  she  refused  to  raise 

164 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

money  on  the  jewels,  he  stole  the  lavalliere 
and  pawned  it. 

Under  the  trees  where  she  said  she'd  left 
them,  the  police  found  the  coat  and  hat.  Be- 
side them  was  the  bag  stuffed  full  of  lingerie, 
gloves  and  silk  stockings,  and  with  the  false 
hair  crowded  down  into  the  inside  pocket. 

Besides  clearing  the  Doctor  her  confession 
threw  light  on  two  important  points — one  that 
Sylvia  had  left  the  house  at  a  little  after  six, 
and  the  other  that  Reddy  had  been  at  the  meet- 
ing place  at  the  time  he  said. 


AFTER  the  excitement  of  the  French 
woman's  arrest  there  was  a  sort  of  lull. 
For  a  few  days  people  thought  we  were  going 
to  move  right  on  and  lay  our  hands  on  the  mur- 
derer. But  outside  of  proving  that  the  Doctor 
wasn't  the  guilty  one  the  crime  was  no  nearer  a 
solution  than  it  had  been  the  day  it  happened. 
Though  there  was  still  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  it,  it  began  to  die  down  in  the  public  in- 
terest and  it  was  then  that  the  papers  got  to 
calling  it  "The  Hesketh  Mystery"  in  place  of 
"The  Hesketh  Murder." 

The  reporters  left  the  Inn  and  went  back  to 
live  in  town,  coming  in  every  few  days  to 
snoop  around  for  any  new  items  that  might 
have  turned  up.  Babbitts  came  oftener  than 
the  others  and  stayed  later,  and  he  and  I  had 

166 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

several  more  walks.  We  were  getting  to  be 
like  partners  in  some  kind  of  secret  business, 
meeting  after  dark,  and  pacing  along  the 
roads  round  the  village,  with  the  stars  shining 
overhead  and  the  ground  hard  and  crumbly 
under  our  feet. 

If  you'd  met  us  you'd  have  set  us  down  for 
a  pair  of  lovers,  walking  side  by  side  under 
the  dark  of  the  trees.  But  if  you'd  followed 
along  and  listened  you'd  have  got  cured  of 
that  romantic  notion  mighty  quick.  Our  flir- 
tation was  all  about  evidence,  and  leads,  and 
clues — not  so  much  as  a  compliment  or  a  baby 
stare  from  start  to  finish.  I  don't  believe  if 
you'd  asked  Babbitts  he  could  have  told  you 
whether  my  eyes  were  brown  or  blue,  and  as 
for  me — outside  his  being  a  nice  kid  he  didn't 
figure  out  any  more  important  than  the  weath- 
ervane  on  the  Methodist  Church. 

It  was  "the  case"  that  drew  us  together  like 
a  magnet  drawing  nails.  We'd  speculate  about 
it,  look  at  it  all  round  as  if  it  was  something 
we  had  hold  of  in  our  hands.  I  guess  it  was 

167 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  mysteriousness  of  it  that  attracted  him, 
and  the  reward,  too.  There  was  more  in  it 
for  me  as  you  know — but  he  never  got  a  hint 
of  that. 

It  was  one  evening,  nearly  four  weeks  after 
the  murder  that  he  gave  me  a  shock — not 
meaning  to,  of  course,  for  even  then  I'd  found 
out  he  was  the  kind  that  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly. 
We  were  talking  of  Jack  Reddy,  who  we'd 
seen  that  evening  in  the  village,  the  first  time 
since  the  inquest. 

"You  know,"  said  Babbitts,  "it's  queer  but 
I  keep  thinking  of  that  yarn  of  Jasper's,  that 
evening  in  the  Gilt  Edge." 

I  drew  away  like  he'd  stuck  a  pin  into  me. 

"Why  do  you  think  about  that?"  I  asked 
loud  and  sharp. 

"Why,"  he  said,  slow  as  if  he  was  consider- 
ing, "I  suppose  because  it  was  so  plausible. 
And  I've  been  wondering  if  many  other  peo- 
ple have  thought  of  it." 

"I  guess  they  have,"  I  answered  kind  of 
fierce ;  "there's  fools  enough  in  the  world,  God 

168 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

knows,  to  think  of  anything.  I  make  no  doubt 
there's  people  who've  tried  to  work  out  that  I 
did  it,  the  reward  tempting  them  to  lies  and 
sin." 

Babbitts  looked  at  me  surprised. 

"What's  there  to  get  mad  about?"  he  asked. 
"I'm  not  for  a  moment  suggesting  that  Reddy 
really  had  any  hand  in  it.  Why,  he  could  no 
more  have  killed  that  girl  than  /  could  kill 
you" 

I  simmered  down — it  was  awful  sweet  the 
way  he  said  it. 

"Then  you  oughtn't  to  be  casting  suspicions 
on  an  innocent  man,"  I  said,  still  grouchy. 

"Oh,  you're  such  a  little  pepper  pot.  Do 
you  think  for  a  moment  I'd  say  this  to  any- 
body but  you.  Look  at  me!"  I  looked  into 
his  eyes,  clear  as  a  baby's  in  the  starlight.  "If 
you  believe  I'm  the  sort  of  fellow  who'd  put  a 
slur  on  Reddy  I  wonder  you'll  come  out  this 
way  and  walk  with  me." 

I  smiled,  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  Babbitts, 
seeing  I  was  all  right  again,  tucked  his  hand 

169 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

inside  my  arm  and  we  walked  on,  very  friend- 
ly. Being  ignorant  of  the  true  state  of  my 
feelings,  he  went  straight  back  to  the  subject. 

"Now  understand  that  I  mean  nothing 
against  Reddy  and  that  I've  never  said  this  to 
a  soul  but  you,  but  ever  since  the  inquest 
there's  been  one  thing  that's  puzzled  me — the 
length  of  time  he  was  out  that  night." 

"He  explained  that,"  I  said. 

"I  know  he  did,  and  everybody's  accepted 
his  explanation.  But  seven  hours  in  a  high- 
powered  racing  car!  He  could  have  gone  to 
Philadelphia,  taken  in  a  show  and  come  back." 

"But  he  told  all  about  it,"  I  insisted. 

"He  did,"  said  Babbitts,  "but  I'll  tell  you 
something,  Miss  Morganthau — between  our- 
selves not  to  go  an  inch  farther — Reddy's 
story  impressed  me  as  the  undiluted  truth  till 
he  got  to  that  part  of  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  said,  low,  and  be- 
ing afraid  I  was  going  to  tremble  I  pulled  my 
arm  away  from  him. 

"This — I  was  watching  him  very  close,  and 
170 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

when  he  began  to  talk  about  that  night  ride, 
some  sort  of  change  came  over  him.  It  was 
very  subtle,  I  never  heard  anyone  speak  of 
it,  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  was  making  an 
effort  to  give  an  impression  of  frankness. 
The  rest  of  his  testimony  had  the  hesitating, 
natural  tone  of  a  man  who  is  nervous  and  may- 
be uncertain  of  his  facts,  but  wrhen  he  came  to 
that  he — well,  he  looked  to  me  as  if  he  was  in- 
ternally bracing  himself,  as  if  he  was  on  dan- 
gerous ground  and  knew  it." 

If  I'd  been  able  to  speak  as  well  as  that 
those  were  exactly  the  words  I  would  have 
used.  I  cleared  my  throat  before  I  answered. 

"Looks  like  to  me,  Mr.  Babbitts,  that  you 
ought  to  be  writing  novels  instead  of  press 
stories." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said  careless,  "but,  you  see,  I've 
been  on  a  number  of  cases  like  this  and  a  fel- 
low gets  observant.  It's  queer — the  whole 
thing.  If  that  French  woman's  evidence  is  to 
be  trusted  Miss  Hesketh  did  leave  the  house 
early  to  keep  that  date  with  the  Voice  Man." 

171 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

I  didn't  say  a  word,  looking  straight  before 
me  at  the  lights  of  Longwood  through  the 
trees.  Babbitts,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
swinging  along  beside  me,  went  on: 

"That's  what's  made  me  think  of  Jasper's 
hypothetical  case.  Do  you  remember?  He 
said  Reddy'd  come  down  to  the  meeting  place, 
found  Miss  Hesketh  with  the  other  man  and 
got  into  a  Berserker  rage.  Say  what  you 
like,  it  does  work  out." 

When  he  bid  me  good  night  at  Mrs.  Gal- 
way's  side  door  he  wanted  to  know  why  I  was 
so  silent?  Even  if  I'd  wanted  to  give  a  rea- 
son I  hadn't  one  to  give.  Don't  you  believe 
for  a  minute  I  was  really  worried — it  was  just 
that  I  hated  anyone  even  to  yarn  that  way 
about  Jack  Reddy.  Poor — me — if  I'd  known 
then  what  was  coming ! 

It  began  to  come  two  days  later,  the  first 
shadow  that  was  going  to  darken  and  spread 
till — but  I'm  going  on  too  quick. 

I'd  just  had  my  lunch,  put  away  my  box 
and  swept  off  the  crumbs,  when  I  got  a  call 

172 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

for  the  depot  from  the  Rifle  Run  Camp. 
That's  a  summer  resort,  way  up  in  the  hills 
beyond  Hochalaga  Lake.  The  voice,  with  a 
brogue  on  it  as  rich  as  butter,  was  Pat  Dona- 
hue's, Jim's  eldest  son,  a  sort  of  idle  scamp, 
who'd  gone  up  to  the  camp  to  work  last 
summer  and  had  stayed  on  because  there 
was  nothing  to  do — at  least  that's  what  Jim 
said. 

I  made  the  connection  and  listened  in,  not 
because  I  was  expecting  anything  worth  hear- 
ing, but  because  I  wasn't  taking  any  chances. 
I  guess  Pat  Donahue  was  the  last  person  any- 
one would  expect  to  come  jumping  into  the 
middle  of  the  Hesketh  mystery — but  that's 
what  he  did,  with  both  feet,  hard. 

I  didn't  pay  much  attention  at  first  and  then 
a  sentence  caught  my  ear  and  I  grew  still  as 
a  statue,  my  eyes  staring  straight  in  front, 
even  breathing  carefully  as  if  they  could  hear. 

It  was  Pat's  voice,  the  voice  answering  Jim's 
at  the  Depot: 

"Me  and  Bridger  was  in  to  Hochalaga  Lake 
173 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

yesterday  forenoon,  fishin'  through  the  ice. 
Can  you  hear  me,  Paw?" 

"Fine.  Are  you  payin'  for  a  call  to  tell  me 
you're  that  idle  you  have  to  play  at  fishin'  ?" 

"Jest  you  listen  close  and  hear  me  before 
you  come  back.  I  seen  in  the  papers  that  Miss 
Hesketh  that  was  murdered  had  one  glove  lost. 
Do  you  mind  what  the  one  that  wasn't  lost 
looked  like?" 

"Sure  I  do— why  shouldn't  I?  Didn't  I  see 
it  at  the  inquest?" 

"Will  you  be  answering  me  instead  of  tellin' 
me  what  you  saw?" 

"Ain't  I  doin'  it?  It  was  a  left-hand  glove, 
light  gray  with  three  pearl  buttons  and  a  fur- 
rener's  name  stamped  in  the  inside." 

"Well,  then,  I  got  the  feller  to  it— right 
hand.  I  found  it  on  the  wharf  at  the  lake,  in 
front  of  the  bungalow.  Seeing  that  there's 
ten  thousand  dollars  reward  offered,  I  thought 
I'd  be  a  bio  win'  in  the  price  of  a  call  to  tell  you, 
though  it's  so  ungrateful  ye  are  for  the  news 
I'm  sorry  I  done  it.  But  I'll  not  bother  you 

174 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

no  more,  for  it's  in  to  the  District  Attorney 
I'll  be  goin'  with  the  evidence." 

That  was  what  he  did,  that  very  afternoon. 
By  the  next  day  everybody  in  Longwood  knew 
how  Pat  Donahue  had  found  Sylvia  Hesketh's 
missing  glove  on  the  wharf  just  in  front  of  the 
Reddy  bungalow.  There  was  a  person  who 
didn't  close  an  eye  that  night,  and  I  guess  you 
know  what  her  name  was. 

Gee,  those  were  awful  days  that  followed! 
When  I  think  of  them  now  I  can  feel  a  sort 
of  sinking  come  back  on  me  and  my  face  gets 
stiff  like  it  was  made  of  leather  and  couldn't 
limber  up  for  a  smile.  Each  morning  I'd 
get  up  scared  sick  of  what  I  was  going  to  hear 
that  day,  and  each  evening  I'd  go  to  bed 
filled  with  a  darkness  as  black  as  the  night 
outside. 

I  couldn't  believe  it  and  yet — well,  I'll  tell 
you  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself. 

The  police  went  out  to  Hochalaga  and  made 
a  thorough  examination  of  the  house  and  its 
surroundings. 

175 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

The  bungalow  stood  at  one  end  of  the  lake 
right  on  the  shore,  with  a  little  wharf  jutting 
out  in  front  of  it  into  the  water.  The  door 
opened  into  a  big  living-room,  furnished  very 
pretty  and  comfortable  with  green  madras 
curtains  at  the  windows,  a  green  art  rug  on  the 
floor,  and  wicker  chairs  xwith  green  denim  cush- 
ions. At  one  side  was  a  big  brick  fireplace 
with  a  copper  kettle  hanging  on  a  crane  and 
over  in  a  corner  was  a  desk  with  a  telephone  on 
it.  Along  the  walls  were  bookcases  full  of 
books  and  in  the  center  was  a  table  with  chairs 
drawn  up  at  either  side  of  it. 

The  police  noticed  right  off  that  it  didn't 
have  the  damp,  musty  feel  of  a  place  shut  up 
through  a  long  spell  of  rain.  The  air  was  cold 
and  dry  and  they  could  scent  the  odor  of  wood 
fires  and  a  slight  faint  smell  of  cigar  smoke. 
Then  they  saw  that  the  fireplace  was  piled  high 
with  ashes  and  that  several  cigarette  ends  were 
scattered  on  the  hearth.  On  the  center  table 
was  a  shaded  lamp  and  near  it  a  match  box 
with  burnt  matches  strewn  round  on  the  floor. 

176 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

The  desk  drawer  was  open  and  the  papers  in- 
side all  tossed  and  littered  about  as  if  some- 
one had  gone  through  them  in  a  hurry.  Two 
armchairs  stood  on  either  side  of  the  table  and 
another  was  in  front  of  the  fireplace.  All  over 
the  floor  were  earth  stains  as  if  muddy  feet 
had  been  walking  about.  There  were  no  signs 
that  the  place  had  been  broken  into — windows 
and  doors  were  locked  and  the  locks  in  good 
condition. 

Outside  against  the  wall  of  the  house  they 
found  a  pile  of  broken  china,  what  seemed  to 
be  the  remains  of  a  tea  set.  It  was  not  till  the 
search  was  nearly  ended  that  one  of  the  men, 
studying  the  grass  along  the  roadside  for 
traces  of  footprints,  came  on  a  gasoline  drum 
hidden  among  the  bushes. 

But  that  wasn't  the  worst — leading  up  the 
road  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  wharf  were 
the  tracks  of  auto  wheels.  At  the  time  when 
these  tracks  were  made  the  road  was  deep  in 
mud  which,  about  the  wharf,  had  evidently 
been  a  regular  pool.  The  driver  of  the  motor 

177 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

had  stopped  his  car  at  the  edge  of  this,  got  out 
and  walked  through  it  to  the  bungalow.  Clear 
as  if  they  had  been  cast  in  plaster  his  foot- 
prints went  from  where  the  ruts  ended  to  the 
edge  of  the  wharf.  There,  just  at  the  corner 
of  the  planks,  three  small,  pointed  footprints 
met  them — a  woman's.  Either  the  man  had 
carried  the  woman  or  she  had  picked  her  way 
along  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  and  joining 
him  on  the  planks  had  made  a  step  or  two  into 
the  soft  earth.  On  the  wharf  the  prints  were 
lost  in  a  broken  caking  of  mud.  The  man's 
went  back  to  the  car,  close  to  where  they  had 
come  from  it,  and  they  returned  as  they  had 
come — alone. 

Jack  Reddy's  shoes  fitted  the  large  prints 
and  Sylvia  Hesketh's  the  small  ones! 

It  came  on  Longwood  with  an  awful  shock. 
The  faces  of  the  people  were  all  dull  and  dazed 
looking,  as  if  they  were  knocked  half  silly  by 
a  blow.  They  couldn't  believe  it — and  yet 
there  it  was!  The  papers  printed  terrible 
headlines — "The  Earth  gives  up  a  Murderer's 

178 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Secret" — and  "Jack  Frost  versus  Jack 
Reddy."  There  were  imaginary  accounts  of 
how  Mr.  Reddy  could  have  done  it,  and  Jas- 
per, in  his  paper,  had  a  long  article  worked 
out  like  the  story  he'd  told  us  that  night  in  the 
Gilt  Edge,  but  with  all  the  holes  filled  up. 
Everything  was  against  Mr.  Reddy,  even  the 
telephone  message  that  Sylvia  had  sent  him 
from  the  Wayside  Arbor  couldn't  be  traced. 
The  Corona  operator  could  remember  noth- 
ing about  it  and  there  was  no  record — 
only  Jack  Reddy 's  word  and  nobody  believed 
it. 

They  had  him  up  before  the  District  Attor- 
ney and  his  examination  was  published  in  the 
papers.  I  can't  put  it  all  down — it's  not  neces- 
sary— but  it  was  bad.  After  I  read  it  I  sat 
still  in  my  room,  feeling  seasick  and  my  face 
in  the  glass  frightened  me. 

When  they  asked  him  if  he  had  been  at  the 
bungalow  that  night  he  said  he  had,  he  had 
gone  there  after  he  had  given  up  his  hunt  for 
Sylvia. 

179 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"Why  didn't  you  say  this  at  the  inquest?" 
was  asked. 

He  answered  "that  he  hadn't  thought  it  was 

necessary — that "  then  he  stopped  as  if  he 

wasn't  sure  and  after  a  moment  or  two  said: 
"I  didn't  see  that  it  threw  any  light  on  the 
murder,  as  I  was  alone." 

"You  wished  to  conceal  the  fact  that  you 
were  there,  then?" 

To  that  he  answered  sharp: 

"I  did  not — but  I  saw  no  reason  to  give  my 
movements  in  detail,  as  they  were  of  no  im- 
portance." 

"Why  did  you  go  there?" 

"I  was  angry  and  excited  and  it  was  a  place 
where  I  could  be  quiet." 

Asked  how  long  he  had  been  in  the  bunga- 
low he  said  he  wasn't  sure — it  might  have  been 
an  hour  or  two.  He  had  lit  the  fire  and  sat 
in  front  of  it  thinking  and  smoking  ciga- 
rettes. 

"Didn't  you  hunt  in  the  desk  for  some- 
thing?" 

180 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

He  answered  with  a  sort  of  shrug  as  if  he'd 
forgotten. 

"Oh,  yes — I  was  hunting  for  a  bill  I 
thought  I  left  there." 

To  the  questions  about  Sylvia — whether  she 
had  been  there  with  him — he  answered  almost 
violently  that  she  had  not,  that  he  had  not  seen 
her  there  or  anywhere  else  that  night. 

"Did  you  notice  any  footprints  in  the  mud 
when  you  came?" 

"I  did  not." 

"There  were  no  evidences  on  the  wharf  or 
in  the  house  of  anyone  having  been  there  be- 
fore you?" 

"None.  The  bungalow  was  locked  and  un- 
disturbed." 

Then  they  switched  off  on  to  the  gasoline 
drum  and  asked  him  if  he  had  filled  the  tank 
there  and  he  said  he  might  have  but  he  didn't 
remember. 

"Was  it  dark  when  you  left  the  place?" 

"No — very  bright  moonlight." 

"You  remember  that?" 
181 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Yes.  I  recollect  thinking  the  ride  back 
would  be  easier  than  the  ride  up  in  the  dark." 

"Why  did  you  say  at  the  inquest  that  you 
filled  the  tank  somewhere  on  the  turnpike?" 

"I  suppose  I  thought  I  had.  In  the  angry 
and  excited  state  I  was  in  small  things  made 
no  impression  on  me.  I  had  no  clear  memory 
of  where  I'd  done  it." 

All  the  papers  agreed  that  his  testimony  was 
unsatisfactory  and  made  much  of  his  manner, 
which,  under  an  effort  to  be  calm,  showed  a 
spasmodic,  nervous  violence. 

A  day  later  he  was  arrested  at  Firehill  and 
taken  to  Bloomington  jail  to  await  indictment 
by  the  Grand  Jury. 

That  night — shall  I  ever  forget  it  1  I  heard 
the  sounds  in  the  street  dying  away  and  then 
the  silence,  the  deep,  lovely  silence  that  comes 
over  the  village  at  midnight.  And  in  it  I 
could  hear  my  heart  beating,  and  as  I  lay  with 
my  eyes  wide  open,  I  could  see  on  the  dark- 
ness like  a  picture  drawn  in  fire,  Jack  Reddy 
in  the  electric  chair. 


"A  day  later  he  was  arrested  at  Firehill  and  taken  to 
Bloomington  jail" 


XI 

LOOKING  back  now  I  can  remember 
dressing  the  next  morning,  all  trembly 
and  with  my  hands  damp,  and  my  face  in  the 
glass,  white  and  pinched  like  an  East  Side  ba- 
by's in  a  hot  wave.  But  there  wasn't  anything 
trembly  about  the  thinking  part  of  me.  That 
was  working  better  than  it  had  ever  worked  be- 
fore. It  seemed  to  be  made  of  steel  springs 
going  swift  and  sure  like  an  engine  that 
went  independent  of  the  rest  of  my  ma- 
chinery. 

And,  thank  God,  it  did  work  that  way,  for 
it  had  thought  of  something! 

The  idea  came  on  me  in  the  second  part  of 
the  night,  flashed  out  of  the  dark  like  a  wire- 
less. I'd  been  wondering  about  the  man  who 
made  the  telephone  date  with  Sylvia — the  Un- 

183 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

known  Voice  they'd  got  to  calling  him.  Peo- 
ple thought  as  Jasper  had  said,  that  Reddy  had 
found  her  with  this  man  and  there  had  been  a 
terrible  scene.  But  whatever  had  happened 
the  Unknown  Voice  was  the  clew  to  the  mys- 
tery. The  police  had  tried  to  locate  him,  tried 
and  failed.  Now  /  was  going  to  hunt  for 
him. 

My  plan  was  perfectly  simple.  From  what 
I  had  seen  myself  and  heard  from  Anne  Hen- 
nessey I  was  sure  I  knew  every  lover  that 
Sylvia  had  had.  I  was  going  to  call  each 
one  of  them  up  on  the  phone  and  listen  to  their 
voices,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  a  soul  about 
it.  Everybody  would  say — just  as  you  say  as 
you  read  this — "but  all  those  men  gave  satis- 
factory alibis."  I  knew  that  as  well  as  any- 
one, but  it  didn't  cut  any  ice  with  me,  I  didn't 
care  what  they'd  proved.  I  was  going  to  hear 
their  voices  and  see  for  myself.  If  I  was  suc- 
cessful, then  I'd  tell  Babbitts  and  have  him 
advise  me  what  to  do.  I'd  heard  Jack  Reddy 
had  retained  Mr.  Wilbur  Whitney,  the  great 

184 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

criminal  lawyer,  but  I  wouldn't  have  known 
whether  to  go  to  him  or  the  police  or  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  and  if  I  did  it  at  all  I  wanted  to 
do  it  right. 

Now  that  there  were  three  of  us  in  the  Ex- 
change my  holiday  had  been  changed  to  Mon- 
day, and  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  put  my 
plan  into  execution  till  that  day.  I  didn't 
want  to  be  hurried,  or  confused,  by  possible  in- 
terruptions, and  also  I  wanted  to  hear  the 
voices  at  short  range  and  could  do  that  better 
from  the  city.  I  telephoned  over  to  Babbitts 
that  I'd  be  in  town  Monday  to  do  some  shop- 
ping, and  he  made  a  date  to  meet  me  at  the 
entrance  of  the  Knickerbocker  Hotel  and  dine 
with  me  at  some  joint  near  Times  Square. 

Monday  morning  I  was  up  bright  and  early 
and  dressed  myself  in  my  best  clothes.  From 
the  telephone  book  I  got  the  numbers  of  the 
four  men  who  were  known  to  have  been  Syl- 
via's lovers  and  admirers — Carisbrook,  Robin- 
son, Dunham  and  Cokesbury.  I  had  .found 
out  from  Anne  what  their  businesses  were  and 

185 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I  had  no  trouble  in  locating  them.  With  the 
slip  of  paper  in  my  purse  I  took  the  ten- 
twenty  train  and  was  in  town  before  midday. 

On  the  way  over  I  worked  out  what  I'd  say 
to  each  of  them.  I  was  going  to  ask  Caris- 
brook,  who  was  a  soft,  dressed-up  guy,  if  he 
knew  where  Mazie  Lorraine,  a  manicure  who'd 
once  been  in  the  Waldorf,  had  moved  to.  It 
was  nervy  but  I  wanted  to  give  him  a  dig,  he 
having  put  on  airs  and  treated  me  like  a  door- 
mat. Robinson  was  easy — he  had  a  common 
name  and  I'd  got  the  wrong  man.  Excuse 
me,  please,  awful  sorry.  Dunham  was  a  law- 
yer and  I  was  a  dressmaker  that  a  customer 
wouldn't  pay.  And  Cokesbury  was  easy,  too 
— I'd  heard  Cokesbury  Lodge  was  for  rent 
and  was  looking  for  a  country  place. 

I  got  Carisbrook  first  and  he  was  as  mad  as 
a  hornet. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
Manicure?  I  don't  know  any  manicure  called 
Lorraine  or  anything  else.  I've  never  been 
manicured  in  the  Waldorf — or  any  other  ho- 

186 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

tel — in  the  city.     The  woman  is  a  liar- 


and  so  forth  and  so  on,  sputtering  and  fizzing 
along  the  wire.  I  had  hard  work  not  to  laugh 
and  in  the  middle  of  it  I  hung  up,  for  he  had 
a  thin,  high  squeak  on  him  like  an  old  maid 
scared  by  a  mouse. 

Robinson  was  a  sport,  I  liked  him  fine: 

'Don't  apologize.  It's  the  penalty  of  being 
called  Robinson.  Still  there's  a  bright  side  to 
every  cloud.  It  might  have  been  Smith,  you 
know." 

It  wasn't  Robinson.  He  talked  with  a  dia- 
lect that  sounded  like  Jasper's,  English,  I 
guess. 

Dunham  was  very  smooth  and  awful  hard 
to  get  rid  of.  He  kept  on  asking  questions 
and  I  had  to  think  quick  and  speak  unnatural- 
ly intelligent.  In  the  middle  of  it — I'd  got 
what  I  wanted — I  said  it  was  too  complicated 
to  tell  over  the  phone  and  I'd  be  in  to-morrow 
at  two  and  my  name  was  Mrs.  Pendleton. 

It  wasn't  Dunham. 

When  I  tackled  Cokesbury  I  ran  into  the 
187 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

first  snag.  I  tried  his  office  and  a  real  pleasant 
young  man  (you  get  to  know  a  young  voice 
from  an  old  one)  asked  me  what  I  wanted.  I 
said  business,  and  he  answered: 

"What  is  the  nature  of  your  business, 
Madam?" 

"I'd  rather  tell  that  to  Mr.  Cokesbury,"  I 
said. 

"Mr.  Cokesbury  doesn't  like  to  be  interrupt- 
ed in  the  office.  If  you'll  tell  me  what  you 
want  to  see  him  about " 

"Say,  young  feller,"  said  I,  in  a  cool,  classy 
way,  "suppose  we  stop  this  pleasant  little  talk, 
and  you  trot  into  Mr.  Cokesbury  and  say  a 
lady's  waiting  on  the  wire." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  calm  and  cheer- 
ful, "I'll  do  just  as  you  say." 

There  was  a  wait  and  then  he  was  back. 

"Mr.  Cokesbury  says  it's  impossible  for  him 
to  come  to  the  phone  and  will  you  kindly  tell 
me  what  your  business  is." 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  wait  till  he's  not  so 
busy,"  I  answered,  languid,  like  I've  heard 

188 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

ladies  when  they're  mad  and  don't  want  to 
show  it,  and  I  hung  up. 

Afterward  I  saw  I'd  made  a  mistake,  for, 
when  I  called  up  two  hours  later  that  polite 
guy  was  still  on  the  job  and  handed  me  the 
same  line  of  talk. 

I  went  into  a  drugstore  and  looked  up 
Cokesbury — Edward  L.,  residence.  It  was 
in  the  East  Fifties  and  at  six  I  tried  him 
there. 

I  drew  a  man  that  I  guess  was  a  servant: 

"Is  Mr.  Cokesbury  home?" 

"Who  is  it?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I  want  to  know  if 
he's  home." 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am.  Will  you  please  give 
me  your  name?" 

"Say,  you're  not  taking  the  census  or  com- 
piling a  new  directory,  you're  answering  the 
phone.  Tell  Mr.  Cokesbury  a  party  wants  to 
see  him  on  business." 

"I  have  orders,  ma'am,  not  to  bother  Mr. 
Cokesbury  with  messages  unless  I  know  who 

189 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

they're  from,"  said  the  voice,  and  then  I  knew 
he  was  there. 

"I'm  sure  he'll  come  if  you  say  it's  a  lady" 
I  said,  sort  of  coaxing  and  sweet. 

"I'll  try,  ma'am,"  said  the  voice,  and  I  could 
hear  the  echo  of  his  feet  as  he  walked  off. 

Presently  he  was  back. 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  Mr.  Cokesbury 
says  he  can't  possibly  come  and  please  to  give 
me  the  message." 

By  that  time  I  was  getting  mad. 

"You  ought  to  get  double  pay,  for  you  seem 
to  be  a  District  Messenger  boy  as  well  as  a 
butler.  If  it's  not  too  much  trouble  would 
you  mind  telling  me  what  Mr.  Cokesbury*s 
friends  do  when  they  want  a  word  with  him 
over  the  phone?" 

"They  tell  the  butler  who  they  are  and  what 
they  want,  ma'am.  That's  the  orders  in  this 
house.  Good-bye." 

When  Babbitts  and  I  were  sitting  at  a  table 
in  a  little  dago  joint  near  Broadway,  I  couldn't 
help  but  tell  him  what  I'd  been  doing. 

190 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  eyes  as  big  as  half- 
dollars  and  then  began  to  laugh. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  that?  Spend- 
ing your  holiday  and  your  nickels  rounding 
up  a  lot  of  men  that  rounded  themselves  up 
weeks  ago." 

"I  want  to  get  that  voice." 

"But  everyone  of  them  have  proved  that 
voice  couldn't  be  theirs." 

"Maybe  they  did,"  said  I,  "but  I  want  to 
know  it  myself." 

"Listen  to  her,"  he  said,  looking  round  the 
table  as  if  a  crowd  was  collected,  "calmly 
brushing  aside  the  police,  the  detectives,  the 
might  of  the  law  and  the  strong  arm  of  the 
press." 

"And  anything  else  that  stands  round  try- 
ing to  discourage  me." 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  discourage  you  in  any 
eccentricity  that  may  develop.  But  there's 
no  need  in  following  up  Cokesbury,  for  we 
know  that  he  was  marooned  in  Cokesbury 
Lodge." 

191 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

"I  don't  care  what  we  know.  The  only 
things  I  believe  are  the  things  I  see  myself." 

"Thomas!"  he  said,  laughing,  and  I  didn't 
see  any  sense  in  his  calling  me  that,  but  he 
often  said  things  I  wasn't  on  to.  "Do  you  in- 
tend to  camp  on  his  trail  all  night?" 

"I  do,"  I  answered.  "As  soon  as  you  get 
through  lapping  up  that  red  ink  I'm  going  to 
go  to  the  nearest  pay  station  and  ring  up  Ed- 
ward L.,  residence." 

'Til  toddle  along,"  he  said.  "Anything 
goes  with  me  that  adds  to  the  entertainment  of 
Mary  McKenna  Morganthau." 

He  held  up  his  glass  as  if  he  was  drinking  a 
toast,  and  something  about  the  look  of  him — I 
don't  know  what — made  me  get  all  embar- 
rassed. It  never  happened  before  and  it  took 
me  so  by  surprise  I  blushed  and  was  glad  I'd 
dropped  my  gloves  on  the  floor  so  I  could 
bend  down  and  hide  how  red  my  face  was. 

I  tried  Edward  L.,  residence,  at  a  drug  store 
on  Broadway  and  again  I  drew  that  butler 
gink,  who  was  sort  of  sassy  and  hung  up  quick. 

192 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Then  we  walked  along  and  I  could  see  that 
Babbitts  was  getting  interested. 

"Tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "that  servant 
knows  you.  I'll  make  the  connection,  say  I 
want  to  see  Cokesbury  on  business,  and  if  I 
get  him,  hand  on  the  receiver  to  you." 

We  fixed  it  that  way,  went  into  a  hotel,  and 
I  stood  at  the  door  of  the  booth  while  Bab- 
bitts got  the  house.  Standing  at  his  elbow  I 
could  see  he  was  up  against  the  same  proposi- 
tion as  I  had  been.  He  finally  had  to  say  he 
wanted  to  see  Mr.  Cokesbury  about  renting 
Cokesbury  Lodge. 

He  turned  to  me  with  his  hand  over  the 
mouthpiece  and  said: 

"He's  there  and  he  won't  come." 
"Has  the  servant  gone  to  get  him?" 
"Yes.     He  wouldn't  say  whether  his  boss 
was  home  or  not,  but  his  willingness  to  take 
the  message  gave  him  away.    Now  stand  close 
and  if  it's  a  new  voice  I  won't  say  a  word,  just 
get  up  and  let  you  slide  into  my  place."    He 
started  and  turned  back  to  the  instrument. 

193 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Yes.    What?"    I  could  see  a  look  of  surprise 
come  over  his  face.    "Soon?    You  don't  know 
—in  a  few  days.    Hasn't  any  idea  of  renting. 
Thanks.    That's  all— good-bye." 
He  hung  up  and  turned  to  me: 
"It  was  the  servant.    Cokesbury  hasn't  any 
intention    of    renting    and    is    leaving    for 
Europe." 

"For  Europe!"  I  cried  out.    "When?" 
"The  man  didn't  know  exactly.     He  said 
he  thought  in  a  few  days." 

We  walked  down  the  street  silent  and 
thoughtful.  The  only  feeling  I  had  at  first 
was  disappointment.  I  didn't  get  the  whole 
thing  clear  as  Babbitts  did.  It  came  on  him 
all  in  a  minute,  he  told  me  afterward. 

We  were  on  Broadway  as  light  as  day  with 
the  signs  and  people  walking  by  us  and  crowd- 
ing in  between  us  as  if  they  were  hurrying  to 
catch  trains.  I  felt  Babbitts'  hand  go  round 
my  arm,  steering  me  into  a  side  street.  It  was 
darker  there  and  there  were  only  a  few  passers- 
by.  We  slackened  up  and  still  with  his  hand 

194 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

around  my  arm,  he  bent  his  face  down  toward 
my  ear  and  said  low,  as  if  he  was  afraid  some- 
one was  listening: 

"Kiddo,  are  you  on?" 

"To  what?" 

"Cokesbury.  Don't  you  get  it?  He  won't 
answer  the  phone." 

"Do  you  mean  he  won't  answer  at  all?" 

"Not  unless  it's  someone  he  knows.  He's 
got  his  clerks  in  the  office  holding  the  fort  and 
his  servants  at  home." 

We  were  just  under  a  lamp  and  I  stopped 
with  my  mouth  falling  open,  for  sudden,  like 
a  flash  of  light,  it  came  to  me. 

"Soapy!"  I  gasped  and  wheeled  round  on 
him.  His  face  bent  down  toward  me,  was  in- 
tent like  a  hunting  dog's  when  it  sees  a  bird, 
his  eyes,  bright  and  fixed,  looking  straight  into 
mine. 

"You've  made  the  first  real  discovery  in  this 
case,  Molly  Morganthau.  Cokesbury's  scared, 

d d  scared,  so  scared  he's  lost  his  nerve  and 

is  lighting  out  to  Europe." 

195 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

We  walked  round  into  Bryant  Park  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench.  We  were  so  excited  we 
didn't  notice  anything — that  I'd  grabbed  Bab- 
bitt's hand  and  kept  hold  of  it,  that  it  was 
freezing  cold,  that  we'd  got  on  a  bench  with  a 
drunk  all  huddled  up  on  the  other  end.  We 
were  as  certain  as  if  he'd  confessed  it  that 
Cokesbury  was  the  Unknown  Voice  and  that 
he'd  killed  Sylvia  Hesketh.  We  just  brushed 
his  alibi  aside  as  if  he'd  never  made  one  and 
planned  how  I  was  to  hear  him  before  he  got 
away  to  Europe.  We  laid  plots  there  in  the 
dark,  sitting  close  together  to  keep  warm,  with 
the  drunk  all  lopped  over  and  muttering  to 
himself  on  the  seat  beside  us. 

When  Babbitts  left  me  at  the  Ferry  we'd 
fixed  it  that  he  was  to  call  me  up  the  next  day 
and  tell  me  what  he'd  done  in  town  and  I  was 
to  tell  him  what  I'd  accomplished  at  my  end 
of  the  line. 

The  next  morning  I  tried  Cokesbury's  office 
with  the  same  results.  At  one  Babbitts  called 
me  and  said  he'd  tried  twice  to  get  him  as  a 

196 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

test  and  been  told  that  Mr.  Cokesbury  wasn't 
down  to-day  and  his  whereabouts  were  un- 
known. By  inquiries  at  the  steamship  offices 
he'd  found  that  Our  Suspect — that's  what 
we  called  him  on  the  wire — had  taken  passage 
on  the  Caronia  for  the  following  Saturday. 
That  was  four  days  off — four  days  to  hear  the 
man  who  wouldn't  answer  the  phone. 

That  afternoon  I  had  an  idea,  called  up 
Anne  Hennessey  and  asked  her  to  meet  me  at 
the  Gilt  Edge  for  supper.  She  came  and  af- 
terward in  my  room  at  Galway's  I  told  her — 
I  had  to,  but  she's  true-blue  and  I  knew  it — 
and  she  agreed  to  help.  She  was  to  come  to  the 
Exchange  the  next  morning,  call  up  Cokes- 
bury  and  say  she  was  Mrs.  Fowler,  who  want- 
ed to  bid  him  good-bye  before  he  left.  While 
she  spoke — imitating  Mrs.  Fowler — I  was  to 
listen.  We  did  it — though  she'd  have  lost  her 
job  if  she'd  been  found  out — and  I  heard  the 
clerk  tell  her  that  Mr.  Cokesbury  wasn't  in  his 
office,  that  he  didn't  know  where  she  could 
find  him,  and  that  it  was  very  little  use  try- 

197 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

ing  to  get  him  on  the  phone  as  he  was  so  much 
occupied  prior  to  his  departure. 

When  Anne  came  out  of  the  booth  I  was 
crying.  I  guess  I  never  before  in  my  life  had 
my  nerves  as  strung  up  as  they  were  then. 

It  wasn't  long  after  that  that  I  had  a  call 
from  Babbitts.  He'd  been  able  to  do  nothing. 
When  he  heard  of  my  last  attempt  he  said: 

"He's  not  answering  any  calls  at  all  now. 
His  own  mother  couldn't  get  him.  It's  no  use 
trying  that  line  any  more.  We've  got  to  think 
up  some  other  way." 

That  was  Wednesday — I  had  only  three 
days.  Three  days  and  I  hadn't  an  idea  how 
to  do  it.  Three  days  and  Jack  Reddy  was 
waiting  indictment  in  Bloomington  jail.  We 
couldn't  stop  Cokesbury  going  or  get  anybody 
else  to  stop  him  unless  we  could  light  on  some- 
thing more  definite  than  a  hello  girl's  sus- 
picions. 


XII 

rpHURSDAY  afternoon  I  was  sitting  in 
•*-  the  Exchange,  feeling  as  if  the  bottom 
had  fallen  out  of  the  world.  I  hadn't  given  up 
yet — I'm  not  the  giving-up  kind — but  I 
couldn't  think  of  anything  else  to  do.  I'd 
tossed  on  my  bed  all  night  thinking,  I'd 
dressed  thinking,  I'd  tried  to  eat  thinking,  I'd 
put  in  the  plugs  and  made  the  connections 
thinking — and  nothing  would  come. 

Two  days  more — two  days  more — two  days 
more — those  three  words  kept  going  through 
my  head  as  if  they  were  strung  on  an  endless 
chain. 

And  then — isn't  it  always  that  way  in  life? 
Just  when  you're  ready  to  throw  up  the 
sponge  and  say  you're  beaten,  Bang — it 
comes! 

199 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

It  came  in  the  shape  of  a  New  York  call 
for  Azalea. 

Like  a  dream,  for  I  was  pretty  nearly  all 
in,  I  could  hear  the  operator's  voice: 

"That  you,  Longwood?  Give  me  Azalea, 
383." 

And  then  me  answering: 

"All  right.    Azalea  383.    Wait  a  minute." 

I  plugged  in  and  heard  that  queer  grating 
sound  as  if  the  wires  were  rubbing  against 
each  other: 

"Hello,  New  York.  All  right  for  Azalea 
383." 

And  then  a  woman's  voice,  clear  and 
small. 

"Here's  your  party.  Just  a  minute.  There 
you  are — Azalea  383." 

Then  a  man's  voice  far  away  as  if  it  might 
be  in  Mars: 

"Hello,  is  that  Azalea  383?" 

"Yep — the  Azalea  Garage,"  that  was  close 
and  plain. 

"This  is  Mr.  Cokesbury's  butler "  Be- 

200 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

lieve  me,  I  came  to  life.    "Cokesbury,  Cokes- 
bury  of  Cokesbury  Lodge — get  it?" 

"Yep." 

"I've  a  message  for  Miner — the  manager." 

"Fire  away,  I'm  Miner." 

"He  wants  to  know  if  you  found  a  raincoat 
in  that  auto  he  had  from  you  last  time  he  was 
down?  R ain coa t,  waterproof .  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes  sir,  I  hear  perfect.  We've  got  it  and 
I'd  'a'  sent  it  back  but  I  thought  he'd  be  down 
again  any  time  and  it  was  just  as  well  to  keep 
it  here." 

"That's  all  right.  The  coat  doesn't  matter 
— but  he's  lost  a  key  that  does.  Thinks  may- 
be he  left  it  in  the  pocket.  Have  you  found 
any  key?" 

"I  haven't  looked.  Hold  the  wire  while  I 
see?" 

There  was  a  pause  while  I  prayed  no  one 
would  come  in  or  call  up.  My  prayer  was  an- 
swered. There  was  nothing  to  interrupt  when 
I  heard  the  garage  man's  voice  again: 

"The  key's  there." 

201 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Good  work!  Mr.  Cokesbury's  had  the 
house  here  upside  down  looking  for  it.  He 
wants  you  to  do  it  up  careful  and  give  it  to 
Sands  the  Pullman  conductor  on  the  six- 
twenty  to-night.  I'll  come  across  and  get  it 
off  him  at  Jersey  City." 

"All  right.  Will  I  send  the  raincoat  along, 
too?" 

"No,  he  don't  want  that.  He's  goin'  to 
Europe  Saturday  and  I  guess  he's  calculating 
to  buy  a  new  one.  Thanks  for  your  trouble. 
Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

I  dropped  the  cam,  sat  tight,  and  thought. 
People  kept  coming  in  and  out  and  calls 
came  flashing  along  the  wires  and  I 
worked  swift  and  steady  like  an  operator 
that's  got  no  thought  but  for  what's  before 
her. 

But  my  mind  was  working  like  a  steam  en- 
gine underneath.  How  could  I  get  him — how 
could  I  get  him?  It  was  as  if  I  had  two 
brains,  one  on  the  top  that  went  mechanical 

202 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

like  a  watch  and  one  below  that  was  doing  the 
real  business. 

Before  the  afternoon  was  over  I'd  decided 
on  a  line  of  action. 

I  called  up  Katie  Reilly  and  asked  her  if 
she'd  relieve  me  at  five-thirty  instead  of  six — 
that  I'd  an  invitation  to  go  down  to  a  party  at 
Jersey  City  and  I  was  keen  to  get  there  early. 
She  agreed  and  at  six  I  was  on  the  platform 
of  the  station  waiting  for  the  New  York  train. 

I  took  a  seat  in  the  common  coach  and  at 
Azalea  watched  from  the  window  and  saw  a 
man  on  the  platform  give  Sands  a  packet.  I 
knew  Sands  well  and  when  he  passed  back 
through  my  car  nodded  to  him  and  he  stopped 
and  stood  in  the  aisle  talking. 

It  wasn't  long  before  I  said,  careless: 

"I  hear  Cokesbury  Lodge  is  for  rent." 

"I  ain't  heard  it,"  said  Sands,  "but  I  ain't 
surprised.  Now  he's  sent  his  family  away  he 
don't  want  a  house  that  size  on  his  hands." 

"Has  he  been  down  lately?" 

"No — not  for — lemme  see — it's  several 
203 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

weeks.  Yes — the  last  time  was  the  Sunday  be- 
fore Sylvia  Hesketh's  murder." 

I  knew  all  that  but  it  doesn't  do  to  jump  at 
what  you're  after  too  quick. 

"Lucky  for  him  he  could  prove  his  car  was 
on  the  blink  that  time,"  I  said,  looking  lan- 
guid out  of  the  window. 

"Sure.  He  and  Reddy  were  the  only  ones 
of  her  fellers  within  striking  distance.  But 
no  one  ever'd  suspicion  Cokesbury.  He  ain't 
the  murderin'  kind,  too  jolly  and  easy.  I  hear 
he's  goin'  to  Europe." 

"Is  he  now?    Where'd  you  hear  that?" 

"From  Miner,  that  runs  the  Azalea  Garage. 
He  come  down  to  the  station  just  now  and 
gave  me  a  package.  Something  Cokesbury 
left  in  the  motor  the  last  time  he  was  down. 
I'm  to  hand  it  over  to  his  servant  at  Jersey 
City." 

"Is  it  love  letters  that  he  don't  want  to  leave 
behind?" 

"No,  I  guess  he's  careful  of  them.  Here  it 
is,"  he  drew  out  of  his  breast  pocket  an  en- 

204 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

velope  with  Cokesbury's  name  and  address 
written  on  it  and  held  it  out  to  me.  "That 
ain't  no  love  letter." 

I  pinched  it. 

"It's  a  key.  It  may  open  tHe  desk  where 
the  love  letters  are  kept.'* 

"I  guess  he's  too  fly  to  keep  any  dangerous 
papers  like  that  around." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "they  might  set  the  house  on 
fire." 

"Well,  ain't  you  the  sassy  kid,"  says  he  and 
then  the  train  slowing  up  for  a  station  he 
walked  on  up  the  aisle. 

In  the  Jersey  City  depot  I  went  like  a  streak 
for  the  Telephone  Exchange.  My  one  chance 
was  to  catch  him  at  dinner  and  I  gave  the  op- 
erator the  number  of  his  house.  When  she 
pointed  to  the  booth  I  was  trembling  like  a 
leaf. 

The  voice  that  answered  me  was  a  woman's 
— Irish — the  cook's,  I  guess.  She  began  right 
off:  "Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Cokesbury's  residence, 
but  you  can't  see  him." 

205 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Wait,"  I  almost  screamed,  scared  that  she 
was  going  to  disconnect,  "this  is  important. 
It's  about  a  key  I've  just  found.  If  Mr. 
Cokesbury's  there  tell  him  a  lady  wants  to  see 
him  about  a  key  she  picked  up  a  few  minutes 
ago  on  the  New  Jersey  train." 

"All  right.    Hold  the  wire." 

I  knew  he'd  come.  My  heart  was  beating 
so  I  had  to  hold  it  hard  with  my  free  hand  and 
I  had  to  bite  my  lips  to  make  them  limber. 
But,  honest  to  God,  when  I  heard  him — clear 
and  distinct  right  in  my  ear — I  thought  I  was 
going  to  faint.  For  at  last  I'd  got  the  Voice! 

"What's  this  about  finding  a  key?"  he  said 
gruff  and  sharp. 

"Am  I  speaking  to  Mr.  Cokesbury?" 

"You  are.    Who  is  it?" 

"No  one  you  know,  sir.  I've  just  come  in 
from  Philadelphia  and  on  the  Pullman  step  I 
found  a  package  which  seems  to  have  a  key  in 
it.  I  noticed  that  it  was  addressed  to  you  and 
I  looked  you  up  in  the  telephone  book  and  am 
phoning  now  from  Jersey  City." 

206 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

He  was  very  cordial  then.  His  voice  was 
the  same  deep,  pleasant  one  he'd  used  to  Sylvia. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you  and  very  thought- 
ful. I  can't  thank  you  enough.  The  package 
was  given  to  the  Pullman  conductor  and  he's 
evidently  dropped  it." 

"Then  shall  I  give  it  to  the  Pullman  con- 
ductor now?" 

"If  you'll  be  so  kind.  My  servant's  gone 
over  there  to  get  it.  Just  hand  it  to  the  con- 
ductor— a  tall,  thin  man,  whose  name  is 
Sands." 

"I'll  do  it  right  off.  Ain't  it  lucky  I  found 
it?" 

"Very.  I'm  deeply  grateful.  It  would 
have  put  me  to  the  greatest  inconvenience  if 
it  had  been  lost.  I'd  like  to  know  to  whom  I'm 
indebted." 

"Oh,  that  don't  need  to  bother  you.  I'm 
just  a  passenger  traveling  down  on  the  train. 
Awful  glad  I  could  be  of  any  service.  Good- 
bye." 

I  waited  a  minute  till  I  got  my  heart  quieted 
207 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

down,  then  took  a  call  for  Babbitts'  paper. 
Luck  was  with  me  all  round  that  night,  for  he 
was  there.  I  couldn't  tell  him  everything — I 
was  afraid — but  I  told  him  enough  to  show 
him  I'd  landed  Cokesbury  and  he  answered  to 
come  across  to  town  and  he'd  meet  me  at  the 
Ferry.  I  caught  a  boat  as  it  pulled  out  of 
the  slip  and  at  the  other  side  he  was  waiting 
for  me. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand 
through  my  arm  and  walking  quick  for  the 
street,  "I  got  a  taxi  here.  We'll  charge  it  up 
to  the  defense." 

I  got  in,  supposing  he  was  going  to  take  me 
somewhere  to  dinner,  but  he  wasn't.  When  I 
heard  where  we  were  bound  I  was  sort  of 
scared — it  was  to  Wilbur  Whitney's  house, 
Jack  Reddy's  lawyer. 

"He's  expecting  us,"  Babbitts  explained. 
"I  called  him  up  right  after  I'd  heard  from 
you.  You  see,  Kiddo,  we  don't  want  to  lose 
a  minute  for  we  can't  stop  Cokesbury  going 
unless  we  got  something  to  stop  him  for." 

208 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

Mr.  Whitney's  house  was  a  big,  grand  man- 
sion just  off  Fifth  Avenue.  A  butler  let  us 
in  and  without  waiting  to  hear  who  we  were 
showed  us  into  a  room  with  lights  in  bunches 
along  the  walls,  small  spindly  gold  chairs  and 
sofas,  and  a  floor  that  shone  like  glass  between 
elegant  soft  rugs.  There  was  some  class  to 
it  and  Babbitts  and  I  looked  like  a  pair  of 
tramps  sitting  side  by  side  on  two  of  the  gold 
chairs.  I  was  nervous  but  Babbitts  kept  me 
up,  telling  me  Mr.  Whitney  was  a  delightful 
gentleman  and  was  going  to  jump  for  all  I 
had  to  say.  Then  we  heard  steps  coming  down 
the  stairs — two  people — and  I  swallowed  hard 
being  dry  in  the  mouth,  what  with  fright  and 
having  had  no  supper. 

Mr.  Whitney  was  the  real  thing.  He  was 
a  big  man,  with  a  square  jaw  and  eyes  deep 
in  under  thick  eyebrows.  He  spoke  so  easy 
and  friendly  that  you  forgot  how  awful  sharp 
and  keen  those  eyes  were  and  how  they  watched 
you  all  the  time  you  were  talking.  A  young 
man  came  with  him — a  real  classy  chap — 

209 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

that  he  introduced  to  me  as  his  son,  George. 

They  couldn't  have  acted  more  cordial  to 
me  and  Babbitts  if  we'd  been  the  King  and 
Queen  of  Spain.  When  they  sat  down  and 
asked  me  to  tell  them  what  I  knew  I  loos- 
ened up  quite  natural  and  told  the  whole 
story. 

The  young  man  sat  sideways  on  the  gold 
sofa,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  looking  into  the 
air  with  his  eyes  narrowed  up  as  if  he  was  spy- 
ing at  something  a  long  ways  off .  Mr.  Whit- 
ney was  sort  of  slouched  down  in  an  easy  chair 
with  his  hands — white  as  a  woman's — hanging 
over  the  arms.  Now  and  then  he'd  ask  me  a 
question — always  begging  my  pardon  for  in- 
terrupting— and  though  they  were  so  calm 
and  quiet  I  could  feel,  as  if  it  was  in  the  air, 
that  they  were  concentrated  close  on  every 
word  I  said. 

When  I  got  through  Mr.  Whitney  said, 
very  cheerful,  as  if  I'd  been  telling  some  yarn 
in  a  story  book: 

"That's  very  interesting,  Miss  Morganthau, 
210 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

and  very  well  told.  Quite  a  narrative  gift,  eh 
George?"  and  he  looked  at  his  son. 

"First-class  story,"  said  George,  and  as 
careless  as  you  please  flicked  off  his  cigarette 
ashes  on  the  rug. 

Mr.  Whitney  leaned  forward  clasping  his 
big  white  hands  between  his  knees  and  look- 
ing into  my  face,  half-smiling  but  with  some- 
thing terrible  keen  behind  the  smile. 

"How  can  you  be  so  sure  of  the  voice,  Miss 
Morganthau?  I  don't  know  whether  on  the 
phone  I  could  recognize  the  voice  of  my  own 
son  here." 

"You  get  that  way  in  my  work,"  I  an- 
swered. "Your  ear  gets  trained  for  voices." 

"You're  absolutely  certain,"  said  young  Mr. 
Whitney,  "that  in  that  message  you  overheard, 
the  man  spoke  of  coming  to  the  meeting  place 
in  his  auto?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  certain  he  said  that." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  his  father. 

"And  investigations  have  shown  he  had  no 
auto,  he  telephoned  to  no  other  garage  for 

211 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

one,  he  kept  no  horses,  and  to  get  there  on  his 
own  feet,  would  have  had  to  walk  through  bad 
country  roads  a  distance  of  twenty-five  miles." 

"Um,"  answered  old  Mr.  Whitney  as  if  he 
wasn't  interested  and  then  he  said  to  me:  "In 
this  message  you  heard  to-day  no  suggestion 
was  given  of  what  that  key  was  the  key  of?" 

"No,  sir.  The  man  just  said  it  was  impor- 
tant and  Mr.  Cokesbury'd  had  the  house  up- 
side down  looking  for  it." 

"Um,"  said  Mr.  Whitney  again.  "I  rather 
fancy,  Miss  Morganthau,  you've  done  us  a 
double  service;  in  hunting  for  a  voice,  you've 
stumbled  on  a  key." 

Young  Mr.  Whitney  laughed. 

"It's  probably  the  key  of  his  front  door." 

"Perhaps,"  said  his  father,  and  looked  down 
on  the  carpet  as  if  he  was  thinking. 

Then  Babbitts  spoke  up: 

"Don't  criminals,  no  matter  how  careful 
they  are,  often  overlook  some  small  clew  that 
maybe  is  the  very  thing  that  gives  them  away?" 

"Often,"  said  Mr.  Whitney.  "In  most 
212 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

crimes  there's  a  curious  lack  of  attention  to 
detail.  The  large  matters  are  well  conceived 
and  skillfully  carried  out.  And  then  some 
minor  point  is  neglected,  sometimes  forgotten, 
sometimes  not  realized  for  its  proper  value." 

He  got  up  and  shook  himself  like  a  big  bear 
and  we  all  rose  to  our  feet.  I  was  feeling 
pretty  fine,  not  only  the  relief  of  having  de- 
livered the  goods,  but  proud  of  myself  for 
getting  through  the  interview  so  well.  Mr. 
Whitney  added  to  it  by  saying: 

"You're  a  pretty  smart  girl,  Miss  Morgan- 
thau.  You  don't  know  and  /  don't  know  yet 
the  full  value  of  the  work  you've  done  for 
me  and  my  client.  But  whatever  the  outcome 
may  be  you've  shown  an  energy  and  keenness 
of  mind  that  is  as  surprising  as  it  is  unusual." 

I  just  swelled  up  with  importance  and 
didn't  know  what  to  say.  Behind  Mr.  Whit- 
ney I  could  see  Babbitts'  face,  all  beaming  and 
grinning,  and  I  was  so  glad  he  was  there  to 
hear.  And  then — just  when  I  was  at  the  top- 
notch  of  my  pride — Mr.  George  Whitney, 

213 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

who'd  been  silent  for  a  while,  said  suddenly: 

"If  you  don't  mind  me  asking,  Miss  Mor- 
ganthau,  I'd  like  to  know  what  lucky  chance 
made  you  listen  in  to  that  conversation  be- 
tween Miss  Hesketh  and  the  Unknown  Man." 

Believe  me  I  came  down  to  earth  with  a 
thud.  How  could  I  tell  them?  Say  I  listened 
to  everything  in  the  hope  of  hearing  Jack 
Reddy  talking  to  Sylvia.  I  looked  down  on 
the  floor,  feeling  my  cheeks  getting  as  red  as 
fire. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Babbitts.  "Don't  be 
afraid  to  say  anything." 

"We're  as  close  here  as  the  confessional," 
said  old  Mr.  Whitney,  smiling  at  me  like  a 
father. 

I  had  to  say  something  and  took  what 
seemed  to  me  the  most  natural. 

"I'd  heard  Miss  Hesketh  was  a  great  one 
for  jollying  up  the  men  and  I  wanted  to  hear 
how  she  did  it." 

And  they  all — that  means  Babbitts,  too- 
just  burst  out  and  roared. 

214 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Good  for  you,  Miss  Morganthau,"  said 
Mr.  Whitney,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  gave  it  a  shake.  "Only  I'll  bet 
a  hat  you  didn't  need  any  teaching." 

He  turned  to  his  son  and  said  something 
about  "the  car  being  there,"  and  then  back 
to  me: 

"Now  for  a  few  days,  Miss  Morganthau, 
I'll  expect  you  to  be  off  duty  in  a  place  acces- 
sible by  telephone." 

"Off  duty!"  I  exclaimed.  "How  can  I  do 
that?" 

He  smiled  in  his  easy  way  and  said: 

"We'll  attend  to  that,  don't  you  worry  about 
it.  Go  home  and  stay  there  till  you  get  a  call 
from  me.  If  anyone  asks  what's  the  matter  say 
you're  ill  and  laid  off  for  a  few  days.  Don't 
bother  about  reporting  at  the  office;  that'll 
be  arranged.  And  I  need  hardly  tell  you  not 
to  speak  a  word  of  what  you've  discovered  or 
of  this  interview  here  to-night." 

"She  won't,"  said  Babbitts.  "I'll  go  bail 
for  that." 

215 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

He  gave  Mr.  George  Whitney  Mrs.  Gal- 
way's  telephone  number  and  then  we  shook 
hands  all  round.  I  was  just  wondering  what 
was  the  quickest  way  to  the  Ferry  when  Mr. 
Whitney  said: 

"The  motor's  waiting  for  you  and  I'm  sure 
Mr.  Babbitts  will  escort  you  to  the  boat. 
Good  night  and  remember — hold  yourself 
ready  for  a  call  to  come  to  my  office." 

The  car  waiting  outside  was  Mr.  Whitney's 
own.  Gee,  it  was  swell!  A  footwarmer  and 
a  fur  rug  and  a  clock  and  a  bottle  of  salts  for 
me  to  sniff  at.  I  didn't  tell  Babbitts  I'd  had 
no  dinner,  for  I  was  ashamed  to  have  the 
chauffeur  stop  at  the  kind  of  joints  we  pat- 
ronize, and  so  I  bore  the  ache  in  my  insides 
and  tried  to  believe  the  footwarmer  and  the 
salts  made  up  for  it. 


XIII 

A  T  noon  the  next  day — Friday — I  was 
*•*•  called  to  Mrs.  Galway's  phone.  It  was 
Mr.  George  Whitney  telling  me  to  come  over 
to  the  city  at  once.  I  wasn't  to  bother  about 
addresses  or  finding  my  way.  I'd  be  met  at 
the  Ferry  and  taken  to  Mr.  Whitney's  office 
in  Broad  Street — all  I  was  to  do  was  to  say 
nothing  to  anybody  and  come. 

I  did  both. 

At  the  Ferry  a  fine-looking  chap  came 
up  to  me,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
asked  me  if  I  was  Miss  Morganthau.  For 
a  moment  I  was  uneasy,  thinking  maybe 
he  was  a  masher,  when  he  turned  to  a 
kind-faced  elderly  woman  beside  him  and 
said: 

"This  is  Mrs.  Cresset,  who's  come  over  on 
217 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  boat  with  you  and  is  going  to  Mr.  Whit- 
ney's office,  too." 

Then  I  knew  it  was  all  right  and  we  three 
got  into  a  taxi.  On  the  way  across  to  Broad 
Street  he  told  us  what  we  were  to  do.  It  was 
nothing  much.  All  Mr.  Whitney  wanted  of 
us  was  that  we'd  sit  in  the  inner  office  and  lis- 
ten to  some  gentleman  talking  in  the  next 
room.  If  we  heard  the  voice  I'd  got  on  the 
wire  and  Mrs.  Cresset  had  heard  the  night  of 
the  murder  we  were  to  say  nothing,  but  sit 
perfectly  still  till  we  were  called. 

"If  you  recognize  the  voice  make  no  sign  or 
sound.  All  we  ask  of  you  is,  if  you're  not  cer- 
tain of  the  identification,  to  say  so." 

The  office  was  a  great  big  place,  rooms 
opening  out  of  rooms,  and  a  switchboard  with 
a  girl  at  it,  dressed  very  neat  and  not  noticing 
us  as  we  passed  her.  Mr.  George  Whitney 
met  us  and  took  us  into  a  room  furnished  fine 
with  leather  armchairs  and  books  all  up  the 
walls  and  a  wide  window  looking  out  over  the 
roofs  and  skyscrapers.  There  was  a  door  at 

218 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

one  side,  and  this  he  opened  a  crack  and  told 
Mrs.  Cresset  to  sit  down  close  to  it  with  me 
opposite.  He  cautioned  us  to  be  quiet  and  not 
to  move  or  even  whisper  till  we  were  called. 

We  sat  there  for  a  while  with  nothing  hap- 
pening. We  could  hear  voices,  and  now  and 
then  people  walking  and  doors  shutting,  and 
once  a  bell  tinkled  far  off  in  the  distance. 
Then  suddenly  I  heard  someone — Mr.  George 
Whitney,  I  think — say,  "Show  him  in,  the 
private  office,"  and  heavy  steps  coming  up  the 
passage,  past  our  door  and  into  the  next  room, 
then  old  Mr.  Whitney's  voice,  very  loud  and 
cheerful. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Cokesbury,  this  is  truly  kind  of 
you.  I  have  to  apologize  for  taking  up  your 
time,  just  as  you're  leaving,  too,  but  we  hoped 
you  might  help  us  in  some  minor  points  of  this 
curious  case." 

The  voice  that  answered  was  Cokesbury's; 
I  knew  it  well  now.  At  the  sound  of  it  Mrs. 
Cresset  gave  a  start  and  leaned  forward,  her 
ear  close  to  the  door. 

219 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

He  was  as  cordial  and  hearty  as  if  he  was  at 
a  pink  tea. 

"Only  too  glad  to  be  of  service,  Mr.  Whit- 
ney. If  I  had  thought  I  could  be  of  any  help 
I  would  have  offered  before.  Fortunately  for 
me — as  you  probably  know — I  was  held  up  in 
my  place  on  the  day  of  the  murder.  If  my 
car  had  been  in  working  order  I  suppose  I'd 
have  been  quite  a  prominent  figure  in  the  case 
by  now." 

He  laughed  out,  a  deep,  rich  sort  of  laugh, 
and  it  made  my  flesh  creep  to  think  he  could 
do  it  with  that  girl's  death  at  his  door. 

The  talk  went  on  for  a  bit,  back  and  forth 
between  them,  Mr.  Whitney  asking  him  some 
questions  about  the  roads,  the  distances,  and 
Miss  Hesketh's  friends ;  he  answering  as  calm 
and  fluent  as  if  he'd  hardly  known  her  at  all. 

In  the  middle  of  it  the  clerk  who  had  met  us 
at  the  Ferry  came  softly  in,  and  without  a 
word,  beckoned  us  to  follow  him  through  a 
door  that  led  into  another  room.  We  rose  up 
as  stealthily  as  burglars  and  stole  across  the 

220 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

carpet  without  making  so  much  as  a  creak  or 
a  rustle.  When  we  were  in  he  shut  the  door, 
told  us  to  wait  there,  and  left  us.  We  sat, 
afraid  to  speak,  staring  at  each  other  and  won- 
dering what  was  going  to  happen  next.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Whit- 
ney came  in. 

"Well?"  he  said,  turning  to  me,  "are  you 
as  sure  as  you  were  over  the  phone?" 

"Certain,"  I  answered.    "It's  the  man." 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Cresset. 

"How  about  you,  Mrs.  Cresset?  Remem- 
ber, a  mistake  in  a  matter  like  this  is  a  pretty 
serious  thing." 

Mrs.  Cresset  was  as  sure  as  I  was. 

"I  couldn't  tell  the  man  from  Adam,"  she 
said,  "but  I  knew  his  voice  the  minute  I  heard 
it." 

"Very  well.  Now  I  want  you  to  come  into 
the  private  office.  Don't  be  frightened;  noth- 
ing disagreeable's  going  to  happen.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  answer  simply  and  truthfully 
any  questions  I  may  put  to  you.  Come  along." 

221 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

We  followed  him  up  the  passage  to  the 
room  where  he'd  been  talking.  Sitting  in  a 
large  chair  by  the  desk  was  the  man  I'd  seen 
that  day  in  the  woods  with  Sylvia  Hesketh. 
He  didn't  look  so  robust  and  hearty  as  he  had 
then;  his  skin  was  paler  and  his  forehead 
lined;  but  I  noticed  his  large  coarse  hands 
with  the  hair  on  them — a  murderer's  hands — 
they  were  the  same. 

When  he  saw  us,  walking  in  solemn  behind 
Mr.  Whitney,  his  face  changed.  It's  hard  to 
explain  how  it  looked,  but  it  was  as  if  the 
muscles  tightened  up  and  the  eyes  got  a  fixed 
startled  expression  like  you  see  in  the  eyes  of 
an  animal  you've  come  on  sudden  and  scared. 
He  rose  to  his  feet  and  I  saw  one  of  his  hands 
close  till  the  knuckles  turned  white.  Mr. 
George  Whitney,  who  was  standing  near  by, 
watched  him  like  a  cat  watching  a  mouse. 

Old  Mr.  Whitney  spoke  up  as  genial  as  if 
he  was  introducing  us  at  a  party. 

"These  ladies,  Mr.  Cokesbury,  come  from 
Longwood  and  its  vicinity.  Miss  Morgan- 

222 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

thau  is  one  of  the  operators  in  the  Telephone 
Exchange,  and  Mrs.  Cresset  you've  met  be- 
fore, I  think,  one  night  at  Cresset's  Farm." 

Mrs.  Cresset  bowed  very  polite  and  made  as 
if  she  was  going  to  shake  hands.  But  Cokes- 
bury  didn't  meet  her  half  or  a  quarter  way. 
He  turned  to  the  men  and — I  guess  he  did  it 
without  knowing — looked  like  lightning  from 
one  to  the  other — a  sort  of  wild  glance.  They 
never  took  their  eyes  off  him,  and  there  was 
something  awful  about  their  stare,  for  all  both 
of  them  were  behaving  so  pleasant.  Under 
that  stare  he  got  as  white  as  a  sheet,  but  he 
tried  to  put  up  a  bluff. 

"Cresset,"  he  said,  "Cresset?  There's  some 
mistake.  I  never  saw  her  before  in  my  life." 

"That's  quite  true,"  said  Mr.  Whitney,  "you 
didn't  see  her  nor  she  you.  If  you  remember 
it  was  very  dark.  But  you  spoke  to  her  and 
she's  willing  to  swear  that  yours  was  the  voice 
she  heard.  Aren't  you,  Mrs.  Cresset?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Cresset,  as  solid  and 
sure  as  the  Bartholdi  statue.  "This  is  the 

223 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

gentleman  that  asked  me  the  way  that  night. 
I'd  know  his  voice  among  a  thousand." 

"What  night?"  said  Cokesbury.  "I  don't 
know  what  she's  talking  about." 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  him  trying  to  keep  it 
up  with  his  face  gray  and  his  hands  trembling. 

Mr.  Whitney  went  on  as  if  he  didn't  notice 
anything. 

"And  Miss  Morganthau  here  is  also  ready 
to  swear  to  your  voice  as  the  one  she  overheard 
on  the  phone  Saturday,  November  the  twen- 
tieth, in  a  conversation  with  the  late  Miss  Hes- 
keth — a  message  you've  probably  seen  a  good 
deal  about  in  the  papers." 

I  saw  one  of  those  big,  hairy  hands  make  a 
grip  at  the  back  of  the  armchair.  I  thought 
he  was  going  to  fall  and  couldn't  take  my  eyes 
off  him  till  Mr.  Whitney  turned  to  me  and 
said  in  that  bland  society  way: 

"Perhaps  you'll  be  so  good,  Miss  Morgan- 
thau, as  to  tell  Mr.  Cokesbury  of  your  efforts 
during  the  past  week  to  get  him  on  the  phone." 

I  told  him  the  whole  thing  and  ended  up 
224 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

with  the  story  of  how  I  fooled  him  about  the 
key.  And,  honest  to  God,  though  I  thought 
I  was  talking  to  a  murderer,  I  was  sorry  for 
him. 

All  the  life  seemed  to  leave  him  and  he  got 
as  haggard  as  an  old  man,  with  his  lips  shak- 
ing and  the  perspiration  in  beads  on  his  fore- 
head. When  I  got  through  he  suddenly  gave 
a  sort  of  groan,  dropped  back  into  his  chair 
and  put  his  hands  over  his  face.  I  was  glad 
it  was  hidden,  and  I  was  glad  when  Mr.  Whit- 
ney turned  to  me  and  Mrs.  Cresset  and  said 
quick  and  commanding: 

"That'll  do.  You  can  go  into  the  other 
room.  Ring  the  bell,  George." 

We  huddled  out  into  the  passage  where  we 
met  that  spry  clerk  coming  up  on  the  jump. 
He  went  into  the  office  and  shut  the  door,  and 
we  could  hear  a  murmur  of  voices,  we  stand- 
ing up  against  the  wall  not  knowing  what  to 
do  next. 

Presently  the  clerk  came  out  again,  rounded 
us  up  and  sent  us  into  the  room  down  the  hall 

225 


where  Mr.  Whitney  had  talked  to  us.  He  told 
us  to  wait  there  for  a  minute,  then  lit  out  as 
if  he  was  in  a  great  hurry.  We  stood  stiff  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  expecting  to  hear  the 
tramp  of  policemen  and  then  Cokesbury  being 
dragged  off  to  jail.  But  it  was  all  very  still. 
I  never  supposed  when  you  caught  a  criminal 
the  proceedings  would  be  so  natural  and  dig- 
nified. 

After  a  while  the  clerk  came  back.  He  said 
Mr.  Whitney'd  sent  us  his  thanks  for  our 
kindness  in  coming — I  never  saw  people  waste 
so  many  words  on  politeness — and  hoped  we'd 
excuse  him  from  thanking  us  in  person,  but  he 
was  just  now  very  busy.  He  warned  us  not 
to  say  a  word  to  anyone  of  what  had  trans- 
pired, and  then  a  boy  coming  to  the  door  and 
saying,  "It's  here,"  he  told  us  a  taxi  was  wait- 
ing below  to  take  us  to  the  Ferry. 

If  we  couldn't  talk  to  anyone  else  we  could 
to  each  other  and  I  guess  we  did  more  gabbing 
going  down  in  the  taxi  and  across  in  the  boat 
than  Mrs.  Cresset  had  done  for  years.  She 

226 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

told  me  about  the  night  when  Cokesbury  had 
come  to  her  house.  It  was  wonderful  to  see 
how  luck  was  with  him — the  way  it  sometimes 
is  with  sinners.  Usually  at  that  hour  she  was 
round  in  the  kitchen  and  when  he  knocked 
would  have  opened  the  door  and  seen  his  face 
in  the  lamplight.  But  she'd  gone  upstairs 
early  as  her  little  daughter  had  a  cold. 

To  go  back  over  the  small  things  that  hap- 
pened would  make  you  sure  some  evil  power 
was  protecting  him.  That  morning  the  little 
girl's  cold  wasn't  bad  and  she'd  gone  to  school 
as  usual.  But  at  the  schoolhouse  she  heard 
that  the  dancing  bear — the  one  I  saw  in 
Longwood  which  had  been  performing  along 
the  pike  on  its  way  back  to  Bloomington — 
had  been  at  Jaycock's  farm  and  might  be 
round  by  Cresset's  that  afternoon.  Like  all 
children,  she  was  crazy  about  the  bear,  and 
after  school  hours  she  and  a  chum  slipped  off 
and  stood  around  in  the  damp,  waiting.  But 
the  bear  did  not  show  up  and  when  she  came 
home,  crying  with  disappointment,  the  cold 

227 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

was  heavy  on  her.  Her  mother  bundled  her 
off  to  bed  and  went  up  early  to  sit  with  her. 
Only  for  that,  Cokesbury  would  probably  have 
been  landed  in  jail  weeks  before,  the  State 
saved  money  and  two  innocent  men  saved 
shame  and  suffering. 

"That's  the  way  it  is  with  the  Devil's  own," 
I  said.  "I  guess  he  takes  care  of  them  for  a 
while;  jollies  them  along  the  downward  path." 

"It  looks  like  that  was  the  case,"  said  Mrs. 
Cresset,  her  kind,  rosy  face  very  solemn.  "But 
the  power  of  evil  gets  broke  in  the  end.  'Mur- 
der will  out' — that's  true  if  anything  is.  Think 
of  that  man  feeling  so  safe  and  every  hour  the 
cords  tightening  round  him." 

"And  we  did  it,"  said  I,  awful  proud.  "We 
found  the  cords  and  then  pulled  on  them." 

"We  did,"  says  she.  "I  never  thought  to  be 
the  one  to  put  a  fellow-creature  behind  bars, 
but  I  have  and  my  conscience  tells  me  I've 
done  right." 

My,  but  we  both  felt  chesty! 

The  next  morning  Babbitts  phoned  me  to 
228 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

say  he'd  be  over  Sunday  evening.  The  in- 
formation of  "Our  Suspect"  would  be  given 
to  the  press  Sunday  morning  for  the  Monday 
papers  and  after  it  was  in  he'd  come  across 
and  tell  me  about  it. 

Mr.  Whitney  had  arranged  for  me  not  to 
go  back  to  work  till  Tuesday  and  though  I 
suppose  the  rest  was  good  for  me,  the  strain 
of  waiting  wore  on  me  something  dreadful.  I 
kept  wondering  how  Cokesbury  had  done  it, 
and  how  he  was  going  to  explain  this  and  ac- 
count for  that.  Most  of  Sunday  I  lay  on  the 
bed  trying  to  read  a  novel,  but  a  great  deal 
more  interested  in  the  hands  of  the  clock  than 
I  was  in  the  printed  pages. 

When  it  began  to  darken  up  for  evening  I 
told  Mrs.  Galway  I  was  expecting  a  gentle- 
man caller  and  asked  for  the  loan  of  the  par- 
lor. She's  a  great  one  for  love  affairs  and  it 
always  discouraged  her  that  I  had  no  regular 
company.  Now  she  thought  I'd  got  a  steady 
at  last  and  wanted  to  lend  me  her  cameo  pin, 
and  decked  up  the  parlor  as  if  the  minister 

229 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

was  coming  to  call,  with  the  hand-painted 
leather  cushion  and  the  punch-work  table- 
cloth. 

Long  before  Babbitts  was  due  I  was  sitting 
by  the  stove,  burning  bright  and  clear,  with 
the  drop  light  throwing  a  glow  over  the  cen- 
ter table.  Upstairs  I  could  hear  Mrs.  Galway 
tramping  round  as  she  went  to  bed,  which  was 
considerate  of  her  as  she  was  something  of  a 
night  bird.  When  I  heard  his  knock  at  the 
side  door,  I  gave  a  sort  of  squeal  of  excite- 
ment and  ran  to  let  him  in. 

"Well?"  I  said,  grabbing  his  arm,  too 
worked  up  to  say  good  evening,  "has  he  con- 
fessed?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  has  and  he's  told  an  un- 
common queer  story." 

"He  killed  her?" 

"That's  the  queerest  part  of  it,"  said  Bab- 
bitts slowly,  "he  didn't." 


XIV 

OW  I  don't  believe  if  I  gave  you  twenty 
guesses  you'd  know  what  I  did  when  I 
heard  those  words — burst  out  crying. 

It  wasn't  because  I  wanted  Cokesbury  to 
be  executed;  it  wasn't  because  I  wanted  the 
reward;  it  wasn't  even  that  I  was  so  crazy  to 
have  Jack  Reddy  exonerated — it  was  just  be- 
cause I  was  so  disappointed — so  foiled — that 
I  couldn't  seem  to  bear  it. 

I  cried  so  hard  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
doing,  and  I  suppose  that's  the  reason  I  leaned 
on  Babbitts'  shoulder,  it  being  the  nearest 
thing  handy.  He  brought  me  to  my  senses, 
patting  me  on  the  arm  and  saying  sort  of 
soothing  as  if  he  was  comforting  a  child  who'd 
broken  her  doll : 

"There,  there— don't  cry— it'll  be  all  right 
231 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

soon.    We'll  get  the  right  man.    Don't  take 
it  to  heart  that  way." 

Then  I  began  to  laugh,  for  it  did  seem  so 
comical — me  crying  because  Cokesbury  wasn't 
a  murderer,  and  Babbitts  telling  me  not  to 
take  it  to  heart  as  if  I'd  been  disappointed  in 
not  seeing  the  electrocution.  The  laughter 
and  tears  got  mixed  up  together  and  I  don't 
know  where  I'd  have  landed  if  I  hadn't  seen 
he  was  getting  frightened  and  wanted  to  call 
Mrs.  Galway.  That  pulled  me  up,  and  I  got 
a  hold  on  myself.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were 
sitting  side  by  side  in  front  of  the  stove,  the 
storm  over,  all  but  a  little  hiccupy  kind  of 
sob,  that  came  upon  me  unexpected  at  in- 
tervals. 

For  the  next  hour  we  sat  there  without  mov- 
ing while  Babbitts  told  me  Cokesbury's  story. 

I'll  put  down  what  he  said  as  near  his  words 
as  I  can  remember  it.  The  way  he  told  it  was 
better  than  any  of  the  newspaper  accounts, 
even  his,  though  he  got  a  raise  of  salary  for 
the  way  he'd  handled  it: 

282 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Cokesbury  says  he  didn't  kill  Sylvia 
Hesketh  and  I  believe  him  and  so  do  the  Whit- 
neys.  Besides  the  corroborative  evidence  is 
absolutely  convincing.  He's  not  a  murderer 
but  he's  a  coward — no  good  at  all — and  that 
explains  why  he  didn't  come  out  after  the 
crime  and  tell  what  he  knew.  Instead  he  got 
in  a  panic,  lost  what  little  nerve  he  had,  and 
was  skipping  out  to  Europe  when  you  nabbed 
him. 

"He  was  in  love  with  Sylvia  Hesketh,  if 
you  call  that  sort  of  thing  love.  Anyway,  in- 
stead of  being  simply  what  you  might  describe 
as  a  beau  of  hers,  he  was  mad  about  her.  I 
fancy  even  she,  poor  girl,  didn't  realize  the  pas- 
sion she'd  kindled,  but  was  like  a  child  playing 
with  a  dynamite  bomb.  It  appears  she  saw 
more  of  him  than  anybody  guessed.  After  the 
first  flirtation  at  Bar  Harbor,  he  came  down  to 
Cokesbury  Lodge  nearly  every  Sunday  and 
used  to  meet  her  in  the  woods  and  on  the  side 
roads,  and  make  dates  with  her  for  theaters 
and  concerts  in  town.  He  kept  it  quiet  for  he 

283 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

knew  without  being  told  that  the  Doctor 
wouldn't  stand  for  it.  His  hope  was  that,  will- 
ful and  unstable  as  he  knew  her  to  be,  he'd 
eventually  win  her  by  his  persistence  and  devo- 
tion. 

"It  was  one  of  those  situations  that  may  end 
in  nothing  or  may  end  as  this  one  did  in  a 
tragedy.  The  girl  was  foolhardy  and  flirta- 
tious; the  man  infatuated.  Very  quickly  he 
got  on  to  the  fact  that  he  was  not  the  only 
victim  of  her  beauty  and  her  wiles.  He 
watched  and  questioned  and  found  out  about 
the  other  men.  Of  them  he  soon  saw  that 
Reddy  was  the  favored  one  and  a  deadly  jeal- 
ousy seized  him,  for  Reddy  might  have  at- 
tracted any  woman. 

"When  he  tried  to  find  out  from  her  how 
she  stood  with  Reddy  he  could  get  no  satisfac- 
tion. She'd  tell  him  one  thing  one  day  and 
another  the  next.  She  kept  them  all  guessing, 
but  it  didn't  mean  to  any  of  the  others  what  it 
meant  to  Cokesbury.  All  through  October 
he  spied  and  queried,  and  learnt  that  she  was 

234 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

meeting  Reddy  in  his  car  and  going  off  for 
long  jaunts  with  him.  He  says  he  was  half 
mad  with  jealousy  and  fear,  but  he  hid  it  from 
her. 

"That's  the  way  things  were  when  he  sent 
the  phone  message  that  you  caught.  You 
sized  him  up  just  right.  When  she  told  him 
she  had  a  date  that  was  a  secret,  he  got 
a  premonition  of  the  truth,  the  way  a 
man  does  when  his  reason  is  under  the 
dominion  of  his  emotions.  He  felt  cer- 
tain she  was  going  off  with  Reddy,  and 
the  brakes  that  he'd  kept  down  till  then 
were  lifted.  He  determined  he'd  find  out 
and  if  it  was  true  stop  them  if  the  skies 
fell. 

"And  now  here  comes  the  queer  part  of  the 
story.  If  anybody 'd  guessed  it  a  lot  of  things 
that  were  dark  would  have  been  as  clear  as  day- 
light. He  did  keep  the  date  you  heard  him 
make  on  the  phone." 

"How  could  he?  He  had  no  car,  or  horse, 
or  anything." 

235 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Only  part  of  that's  true — he  had  no  car,  or 
horse,  but  he  did  have  something." 

"What?" 

"An  aeroplane." 

I  fell  back  staring  at  him. 

"An  aeroplane — in  Cokesbury  Lodge?" 

"In  the  garage  there.  That's  why  he 
wouldn't  rent  the  house;  that's  why  he  kept 
going  down  over  Sunday  all  summer.  The 
year  he  was  in  France  he'd  done  a  lot  of  fly- 
ing and  was  fascinated  by  it.  Before  he  left 
there  he  was  an  expert  aviator,  but  his  wife 
hated  it  and  it  wras  one  of  their  grounds  of 
dissension.  After  she  died  he  had  a  machine 
brought  down  in  sections,  set  it  up  himself, 
and  kept  it  in  the  garage.  Not  a  soul  knew  it. 
He  only  flew  at  night  for  he  wanted  it  kept  a 
secret." 

"Why— what  for?" 

"Because — here's  the  best  thing  I've  heard 
about  him — he  carried  a  heavy  life  insurance 
policy  secured  to  his  children.  Cokesbury's 
not  a  rich  man,  though  he  has  a  good  busi- 

236 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

ness,  and  if  he  died  his  children  would  have 
had  to  live  on  what  their  mother  left  them, 
which  wasn't  much.  If  it  was  known  that  he 
was  aviating  the  policy  would  have  been  in- 
validated, so  he  indulged  his  secret  passion  at 
night.  The  isolated  position  of  the  house  made 
it  easy  to  escape  detection  and  his  machine  was 
equipped  with  a  very  silent  muffler.  No  one 
had  a  glimmering  of  it,  not  even  Sylvia. 

"The  phone  message  you  heard  was  sent 
from  the  station  at  Jersey  City  and  when  he 
sent  it  he  did  intend  coming  to  Mapleshade  in 
his  motor.  When  he  got  to  Azalea  and  found 
the  car  unmended  in  the  garage  he  flew  into  a 
rage,  as  he  thought  his  plans  were  blocked. 
Alone  in  the  Lodge,  ravaged  by  jealousy,  he 
lost  all  caution  and  decided  to  take  out  the 
aeroplane. 

"You  remember  that  there  was  a  moon  that 
night,  but  that  in  the  evening  the  skies  were 
clouded  and  the  air  breathless.  The  darkness 
and  the  weather  were  on  his  side  and  he  came 
down  in  a  field  about  ten  minutes  walk  from 

237 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  house,  closing  the  cut-out  as  he  descended. 
He  was  early  and  hid  himself  among  some 
trees  where  he  could  watch  the  front  door.  He 
says  it  was  while  he  was  waiting  there  for  her 
that  the  idea  came  to  him  of  frustrating  an 
elopement  by  carrying  her  off. 

"He  was  laying  round  in  his  mind  how  he 
would  get  the  truth  from  her,  when  he  saw 
her  come  out  and  gave  a  low  whistle.  She 
heard  it  and  came  toward  him.  It  was  not  till 
she  was  close  to  him  and  he  could  see  the  out- 
lines of  her  figure  through  the  dark,  that  he 
made  out  a  bag  in  her  hand.  Then  he  knew 
for  certain  she  was  going  and  decided  on  his 
course. 

"In  all  his  other  dealings  with  her  he  had 
found  her  subtle  and  evasive.  Now,  perhaps 
because  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
decided  on  a  positive  action,  she  went  straight 
to  the  point.  Without  any  preamble  she  told 
him  what  she  was  going  to  do  and  that  within 
a  half -hour  Reddy  would  be  waiting  for  her 
in  the  Lane. 

238 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"He  showed  no  anger  or  surprise,  apparent- 
ly accepting  the  situation  in  the  most  friendly 
spirit.  He  says  he  thought  she  was  relieved, 
having  expected  a  scene  with  him.  When  he 
had  disarmed  her  of  her  suspicions,  he  told 
her  of  the  airship  and  asked  her  if  she  wouldn't 
like  to  come  up  for  a  spin  before  Reddy 
arrived.  They  had  over  half  an  hour  and 
he  could  take  her  for  a  short  flight  and 
would  bring  her  down  in  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes. 

"Everybody  agrees  that  she  was  a  bold,  ven- 
turesome girl,  and  the  idea  appealed  to  her, 
as  she  had  never  been  up.  They  walked 
quickly  through  the  fields  and  bit  of  woodland 
to  the  aeroplane.  She  was  in  high  spirits  as 
she  tucked  herself  in ;  he  could  hear  her  laugh- 
ter as  he  took  his  seat,  and  then,  closing  the 
cut-out,  they  soared  up. 

"They  rose  high — about  two  thousand  feet, 
he  thought — and  then  he  headed  East.  They 
were  winging  their  way  over  Cokesbury 
Lodge  on  toward  the  hills  in  the  distance  when 

239 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

Reddy  must  have  sighted  the  lights  of  Long- 
wood  as  he  came  down  the  Firehill  Road. 

"Cokesbury  swears  he  had  no  intention  of 
kidnapping  her.  He  says  he  had  no  definite 
idea  of  where  he  was  going,  that  his  plan  was 
simply  to  get  her  away  from  Reddy  and  put 
an  end  to  the  marriage.  Personally,  I  don't 
believe  him.  I  think  he  had  a  perfectly  clear 
idea  of  carrying  her  off  to  Cokesbury  Lodge, 
and  that  his  chivalrous  scheme  was  to  put  her 
into  such  a  compromising  position  she  would 
be  willing  to  marry  him.  Maybe  I'm  wrong — 
I  don't  know.  Anyway,  he  very  soon  saw 
you  can't  abduct  a  high-spirited,  hot-tempered 
girl  against  her  will. 

"After  about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  he 
was  conscious  of  her  getting  uneasy  and 
speaking  to  him — words  that  he  couldn't  hear 
but  that  he  knew  to  be  at  first  startled  ques- 
tions, then  angry  commands.  He  shouted  re- 
plies, but  the  great  machine  kept  steadily  on 
its  way,  neither  turning  nor  dipping  down- 
ward. Then  she  realized  and  broke  into  a 

240 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

fury,  turning  upon  him  in  the  dark,  putting 
her  face  close  to  his  and  screaming  for  him 
to  bring  her  down.  The  noise  made  it  im- 
possible to  argue  with  her,  and  fearful  of  what 
she  might  do,  he  held  her  off  with  his  elbow, 
the  delicately  balanced  machine  swaying  as  she 
seized  his  arm  and  shook  it,  lunging  up  against 
him,  her  cries  of  rage  rising  above  the  thun- 
der of  the  screw. 

"Can't  you  imagine  it?  The  big  ship  sail- 
ing through  the  night  with  the  lights  of  farms 
and  little  towns  sliding  by  far  below,  and 
above  the  sky  muffled  deep  in  black  clouds. 
Poised  between  them  the  man  and  woman, 
each  gripped  by  a  different  passion — suspend- 
ed there  like  two  naked  souls  in  a  sort  of  ele- 
mental battle  of  the  sexes. 

"He  admits  he  was  scared  and  if  he  could 
have  spoken  to  her  would  have  pacified  her 
with  all  sorts  of  assurances.  But  speech  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  when  she  made  a  sud- 
den lunge  across  him  for  the  wheel  he  realized 
she  would  kill  them  both  if  he  didn't  bring  her 

241 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

to  earth.  Throwing  her  back  with  a  blow  of 
his  elbow,  he  yelled  that  he  was  coming  down 
and  as  she  felt  the  machine  begin  its  glancing, 
downward  glide  she  fell  back  into  her  place, 
suddenly  quiet,  then  leaned  forward  scanning 
the  country  below  them. 

"A  momentary  break  of  the  clouds  let  a  lit- 
tle light  spill  through  and  by  this  he  saw  a 
bare,  bold  landscape  darkened  by  woods,  and 
with  the  gleam  of  a  large  body  of  water  to 
the  right,  showing  against  the  blackness  like 
polished  steel.  He  made  a  landing  in  an  open 
space,  an  uncultivated  field  with  a  hillock  in 
the  center  covered  with  grass  and  surrounded 
by  trees.  The  water  had  drained  off  this  and 
it  was  quite  dry. 

"She  was  hardly  out  on  the  ground  and  he 
was  preparing  for  an  explanation  when  to  his 
surprise  she  curtly  told  him  to  follow  her  and 
led  the  way  along  a  ridge  that  skirted  the  lake. 
This,  too,  was  dry,  a  fact  curiously  in  his  fa- 
vor, for  their  feet  left  no  tracks,  the  grass 
closing  on  the  trail  they  swept  through  it. 

342 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

She  did  not  address  him  again  till,  the  dim 
shape  of  a  house  appearing,  he  asked  her  if 
she  was  going  there  and  she  answered  in  the 
same,  curt  way :  Yes ;  she  was  cold.  A  wharf 
jutted  out  in  front  of  the  house  and  in  step- 
ping from  the  grass  to  the  planks  he  made  a 
motion  to  help  her,  but  she  started  away  from 
him  as  if  he  was  a  snake,  making  two  or  three 
steps  into  the  liquid  mud  that  ran  up  to  the 
wharf's  edge.  It  was  then  he  thought  she 
dropped  the  glove.  Once  again  on  the  planks 
she  took  a  key  from  her  purse,  fitted  it  in  the 
lock  and  opened  the  door. 

"The  room  was  pitch  dark  and  Cokesbury 
stood  in  the  doorway  while  she  went  in.  She 
moved  about  as  if  she  was  accustomed  to  the 
place,  lit  a  lamp,  set  a  match  to  the  fire  already 
laid  and  gave  him  a  copper  kettle  to  fill  with 
water  from  the  lake.  When  he  came  back 
with  it  the  table  was  set  out  with  tea  things 
and  the  fire  was  leaping  up  the  chimney.  She 
hung  the  kettle  on  a  crane,  swung  it  over  the 
flames  and  then,  turning  to  him,  said: 

243 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

''Do  you  know  where  you  are?'  He  said 
he  didn't  and  she  answered:  'You're  in  Jack 
Reddy's  bungalow  at  Hochalaga  Lake,  the 
place  where  I've  spent  the  happiest  days  of 
my  life.' 

"He  looked  at  her  in  amazement  and  she 
smiled  scornfully  back  at  him.  'You  fool!' 
she  said,  'to  think  you  could  come  blundering 
in  and  stop  me  from  marrying  the  only  man 
of  all  of  you  who's  worth  a  heartbeat.' 

"She  made  tea  and  then  motioned  him  to 
sit  down  by  the  table,  taking  a  seat  at  the  other 
side.  Facing  each  other  in  the  lamplight  they 
had  a  conversation  that  put  an  end  to  all  his 
dreams.  For  the  first  time  in  his  acquaintance 
with  her  he  thought  she  spoke  frankly.  She 
told  him  of  her  friendship  with  Reddy  from 
the  start,  and  how  the  Doctor's  senseless  oppo- 
sition had  fanned  a  boy-and-girl  flirtation 
into  a  passionate  love  affair. 

"When  the  quarrels  began  at  Mapleshade 
they  found  that  they  could  meet  without  fear 
of  detection  at  the  Lake,  she  going  out  there 

244 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

in  her  car  and  he  in  his.  She  had  her  own  key 
and  often,  during  the  autumn,  she  had  gone 
to  the  bungalow  in  the  morning,  Reddy  had 
joined  her  and  they  had  spent  the  day  to- 
gether, canoeing  and  fishing  on  the  lake,  cook- 
ing a  picnic  meal  over  the  fire,  and  driving 
home  in  the  afternoon,  the  racer  towing  her 
car  till  they  came  to  the  turnpike. 

"Cokesbury  says  he  thinks  at  first  it  was 
only  the  spirit  of  romance  and  adventure  which 
made  her  do  such  a  rash  thing,  but  that  in  the 
end  Reddy's  devotion  and  chivalrous  attitude 
made  a  deep  impression  on  her  and  she  came 
as  near  loving  him  as  she  could  any  man.  He 
says  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  meetings  were 
perfectly  innocent  and  that  Reddy  had  be- 
haved from  the  start  as  a  gentleman. 

;  'Whether  she  really  loved  him  or  not/  he 
said,  'he'd  taught  her  to  respect  him.* 

"They  talked  for  over  an  hour,  taking  the 
tea  she  had  made  and  Cokesbury  smoking  a 
cigar.  He  remembered  leaving  the  butt  in  the 
saucer  of  his  cup.  It  was  half -past  eight 

245 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

when  they  rose  to  go.  Sylvia  put  out  the  lamp 
but  the  fire  was  still  burning  and  the  tea  things 
were  left  on  the  table.  Cokesbury  says  he 
promised  to  take  her  home,  that  he  saw  his 
case  was  hopeless,  and  he'd  made  up  his  mind 
to  have  done  with  her  forever. 

"The  sky  was  clouded  over  and  it  was  as 
dark  as  a  pocket  when  they  went  back  to  the 
aeroplane.  He  had  to  direct  the  machine  by 
guesswork,  the  country  black  below  him  and 
the  sky  black  above.  He  swears  that  he  in- 
tended to  take  her  back  to  Mapleshade,  and  I 
believe  him.  No  man — not  even  a  bad  egg 
like  Cokesbury — wants  to  run  away  with  a 
woman  who  hands  out  the  line  of  talk  that  girl 
had  in  the  bungalow. 

"Anyway,  we've  only  his  word  for  the  state- 
ment that  he  completely  lost  his  bearings.  He 
could  see  no  lights  and  after  making  an  ex- 
ploratory circle,  realized  he  hadn't  the  slight- 
est idea  which  way  to  go.  To  make  matters 
worse,  he  could  hear  from  shouted  remarks  of 
hers  that  her  suspicions  were  on  the  alert  and 

246 


THE   GIIIL   AT   CENTRAL 

that  she  was  ready  to  flare  up  again.  By  this 
time  there  wasn't  much  of  the  lover  left  in 
him.  According  to  his  own  words  he  was  as 
anxious  to  get  her  home  again  as  she  was  to  be 
there.  With  his  head  clear  and  his  blood  cold 
he  did  not  relish  a  second  flight  with  a  woman 
fighting  like  a  wildcat. 

"This  was  the  situation — she,  angry  and 
disbelieving;  he,  scared  and  unable  to  concili- 
ate her — when  the  twinkle  of  a  light  caught  his 
eye  and  he  decided  to  come  down  and  ask  his 
way.  They  dropped  into  a  stretch  of  grass 
land  among  fields,  with  the  light  shining  some 
way  off  through  a  screen  of  trees.  Farther 
away,  just  a  spark,  he  saw  another  light.  He 
told  her  to  wait  while  he  went  to  inquire,  and 
walked  off  toward  the  one  that  was  nearest. 

"It  was  Cresset's  Farm.  There  he  had  the 
interview  with  Mrs.  Cresset,  telling  her  he  had 
an  auto  in  order  to  explain  his  presence.  When 
he  went  back  he  found  that  Sylvia  had  disap- 
peared. At  first  he  didn't  know  what  to  do, 
realizing  that  if  the  story  of  their  flight  got 

247 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

abroad,  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay.  He 
was  certain  she  had  disbelieved  him  and  had 
taken  the  opportunity  to  get  away  from  him. 
She  was  either  hiding  or  had  gone  for  the  sec- 
ond light.  This  being  the  most  plausible,  he 
walked  toward  it — quite  a  distance  across 
fields  and  through  woods — and  brought  up  at 
a  ramshackle  roadhouse — the  Wayside  Arbor. 

"He  stole  round  from  the  back  to  a  side 
window  and  there,  through  a  crack  in  the  shut- 
ter, looked  in  and  saw  Sylvia  talking  to  Hines. 
He  says  he  stayed  there  for  some  minutes, 
afraid  if  he  went  in  after  her  she  would  make 
a  scene  and  start  a  scandal.  Then  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  telephone  booth  and  he  felt  sure  she 
had  telephoned  either  to  her  own  home  or  to 
Reddy.  Her  air  of  waiting — she  was  sitting 
by  the  stove  with  her  feet  on  its  lower  edge- 
confirmed  him  in  this  and  he  decided  to  let  her 
alone. 

"He  went  back  to  the  aeroplane,  wondering 
what  would  be  the  outcome  of  the  whole  crazy 
escapade.  He  says  he  felt  confident  of  her 

248 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

cleverness  to  hush  the  thing  up,  but  he  was 
uneasy.  His  discomfort  wasn't  lessened  when 
he  found  that  she  had  left  her  bag  in  the 
machine,  and  on  his  way  home  one  of  the 
things  that  preoccupied  him  was  thinking 
up  the  best  way  of  getting  the  bag  back  to 
her. 

"Monday  morning  he  went  to  town  in  a 
state  of  suspense.  If  she  should  tell  there  was 
no  knowing  what  might  happen  and  he  was  on 
the  alert  for  a  visit  from  the  Doctor  or  even 
Reddy.  But  the  day  passed  without  any  sign 
of  trouble,  and  he  was  just  calming  down, 
thinking  she  had  either  found  Reddy  and  gone 
with  him  or  invented  some  story  to  quiet  the 
Mapleshade  people,  when  he  read  of  the  mur- 
der in  the  evening  paper. 

"Then,  you  better  believe  he  was  frightened. 
He  knew  the  bag  was  hidden  in  his  room  at 
the  Lodge  and  that  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  not 
a  soul  had  seen  the  airship.  As  to  Mrs.  Cres- 
set, he  felt  safe  for  she  couldn't  possibly  have 
made  out  a  feature  in  the  darkness." 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"But,"  I  cried  out,  "why  if  he  hadn't  done 
it " 

"That's  all  right,"  Babbitts  interrupted. 
"He  hadn't  done  it,  but  I  tell  you  he  was 
a  coward.  He  was  in  a  sweat  for  fear  of 
being  suspected,  of  being  pulled  in  as  a 
witness,  of  his  reputation,  his  business,  his 
position.  He  wanted  to  keep  out  of  it  at  any 
cost." 

"What  a  cur!"  I  said. 

"Oh,  he's  that  and  more,  and  he's  ready  to 
admit  it  himself.  But  it  wasn't  as  smooth 
sailing  as  he  thought  it  would  be.  After  the 
inquest  he  read  of  the  overheard  phone  mes- 
sage and  that  brought  him  up  with  a  jolt.  He 
got  in  a  state  of  terror,  realizing  too  late  that 
his  silence  was  more  incriminating  than  any 
confession. 

"Every  day  his  fears  grew  worse.  He 
wouldn't  answer  any  phone  calls,  faking  up 
reasons  to  his  clerks  and  his  servants.  Finally 
it  got  on  his  nerves  so  he  couldn't  stand  it  and 
he  made  ready  to  skip  to  Europe.  The  key 

250 


THE    GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

was  what  tripped  him  up.  Do  you  remember 
Mr.  Whitney  saying  how  criminals  overlooked 
important  details?  Well,  what  he  overlooked 
was  the  key  of  the  garage.  In  his  preoccu- 
pation on  Monday  morning  he  had  put  it  in 
the  pocket  of  the  raincoat  he  was  accustomed 
to  leave  in  the  auto  and  had  simply  forgotten 
it.  Then  when  he  went  to  pack  his  things  he 
couldn't  find  it,  hunted  in  a  nervous  frenzy 
and  finally  had  his  man  telephone  over  to 
Miner's  place.  You  and  the  key  were  the 
combination  that  beat  him." 

"But  Jack  Reddy?"  I  said.  "Was  he  going 
to  slink  off  and  let  him  be  tried  for  the  murder 
when  he  could  have  cleared  it  all  up?" 

"He  says  not  and  I  guess  the  fellow's  not 
as  yellow  as  to  have  stood  by  and  let  an  inno- 
cent man  go  to  his  death.  He  says  there  wasn't 
enough  evidence  to  convict  Reddy  and  if 
things  had  gone  badly  he  would  have  come  out 
and  told  what  he  knew.  And  I  think  that's 
true — anyway,  we'll  give  him  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt." 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"How  can  you  be  so  sure?  How  do  you 
know  he's  not  the  murderer  after  all?" 

"Oh,  there's  no  doubt.  Everything  fits  in 
too  well.  The  police  were  out  at  Cokesbury 
Lodge  on  Saturday  and  saw  the  aeroplane 
and  found  Miss  Hesketh's  bag.  Both  the 
Whitneys — father  and  son,  who've  had  a  vast 
experience  in  this  sort  of  case — say  there's  no 
question  of  his  innocence." 

We  sat  silent  for  a  spell,  looking  at  the 
stove,  then  I  said: 

"We're  back  just  where  we  were  in  the  be- 
ginning." 

Babbitts  leaned  forward  and  shook  down 
some  ashes. 

"The  case  is,  but  we're  not,"  he  said. 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?"  I  asked. 

"Six  weeks  ago  we  didn't  know  each  other 
and  now  we're  friends." 

"That's  so,"  I  said,  and  we  both  sat  staring 
thoughtfully  at  the  red  eye  of  the  stove. 


XV 

y^OKESBURY'S  story  made  a  great  sen- 
^^  sation.  Even  if  it  didn't  bring  us  any 
nearer  to  finding  the  murderer,  it  explained 
the  mystery  of  Sylvia's  movements  up  to  the 
time  she  appeared  in  the  Wayside  Arbor,  and 
it  cleared  Jack  Reddy.  Babbitts  told  me  that 
the  Whitneys  were  doing  some  legal  stunts — 
I  won't  tell  what  they  were  for  I'd  never  get 
them  straight — to  have  him  liberated,  and  that 
they  would  soon  issue  a  statement  to  the  press. 

When  it  came  out  everybody  saw  why  he 
had  said  such  contradictory  things  about  those 
seven  hours  on  the  road. 

Babbitts  and  I  had  guessed  right  when  we 
thought  he  was  holding  something  back  and 
when  I  heard  why  I  was  grateful  to  him.  Yes, 
grateful,  that's  the  word.  And  I'll  tell  you 

MM 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL' 

why  I  use  it.  He  was  my  hero  and  he  stayed 
a  hero,  didn't  fall  down  and  disappoint  me,  but 
made  me  know  there  were  people  in  the  world 
who  could  stick  to  their  standard  no  matter 
what  happened.  Don't  you  think  that's  a 
thing  to  be  grateful  for? 

The  reason  he  didn't  tell  was  to  protect  the 
memory  of  that  poor  dead  girl,  who  couldn't 
rise  up  and  protect  herself.  He  knew  what 
wicked  lies  would  be  told  and  believed  and  he 
was  going  to  shield  her  in  death  as  he  would 
have  in  life. 

That  night  after  he  had  searched  the  roads, 
he  suddenly  thought  that  in  some  wild  freak 
she  had  gone  to  the  bungalow  m  her  own  car 
and  phoned  him  from  there.  As  soon  as  the 
idea  entered  his  head  he  went  out  to  the  lake. 
One  glance  showed  him  someone  had  been 
there  before  him — the  room  was  warm,  the  fire 
still  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  He  lit  the 
light  and  saw  the  two  teacups  and  the  cigar 
butt  on  the  saucer.  He  examined  the  doors 
and  windows  and  found  that  they  were  locked 

£64 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

and  there  was  no  sign  of  anyone  having 
broken  in.  The  only  person  beside  himself 
who  had  a  key  to  the  bungalow  was  Sylvia. 

Then  he  knew  she  had  been  there  with  an- 
other man  and  one  of  those  fierce  rages  came 
on  him. 

Fo*  a  spell  he  was  outside  himself.  He 
thought  of  things  that  never  happened,  the 
way  people  do  in  a  fury — imagined  Sylvia 
sending  him  the  phone  message  with  the  other 
man  standing  by  and  laughing.  He  tore  her 
letters  out  of  the  desk  and  threw  them  in  the 
fire  and  smashed  the  tea  things  against  the 
side  of  the  house.  He  was  half  crazy,  think- 
ing himself  fooled  and  made  a  mock  of  by 
the  woman  he  had  loved. 

When  his  rage  quieted  down  he  sat  brood- 
ing over  the  fire  for  a  long  time.  It  was  moon- 
light when  he  left,  bright  enough  for  him  to 
fill  the  tank.  He  had  never  thought  about  any 
inquiries  for  the  missing  drum  till  at  the  in- 
quest the  question  of  the  gasoline  was  sprung 
on  him.  Then  he  lied,  feeling  certain  that  no 

255 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

one  would  ever  go  out  to  the  lake.  It  was 
his  intention  to  go  there  himself,  hide  the  drum 
and  clear  out  the  cottage,  but  he  put  it  off, 
hating  to  go  near  the  place.  If  Pat  Donahue 
hadn't  gone  there  to  fish  through  the  ice — a 
thing  no  one  would  have  dreamed  of — the  se- 
cret of  the  bungalow  would  never  have  been 
discovered. 

One  of  the  features  of  the  case  that  he 
couldn't  understand  and  that  he  spent  the  days 
in  jail  speculating  about,  was  how  she  had 
reached  the  lake.  The  mud  showed  the  tracks 
of  only  one  auto,  his  own.  He  could  find  no 
solution  to  this  mystery  and  he  could  speak 
to  no  one  about  it.  Whatever  happened  to 
him,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  he  would  never 
give  her  up  to  the  evil-minded  and  evil- 
tongued  who  would  blacken  and  tear  to  pieces 
all  that  was  left  of  her. 

He  was  liberated,  and,  believe  me,  Longwood 
rejoiced.  It  was  as  if  a  king  who  had  been 
banished  had  come  back  to  his  throne. 

I  don't  think  he  was  home  two  days  when 
256 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

he  telephoned  in  asking  me  if  he  could  come 
to  see  me  and  thank  me  for  what  I'd  done. 
Wasn't  that  like  him?  Most  men  would  have 
been  so  glad  to  get  out  of  jail  they'd  have  for- 
gotten the  hello  girl  who'd  helped  to  free 
them,  but  not  Jack  Reddy. 

He  came  in  the  late  afternoon,  at  the  time 
I  got  off.  I'll  never  forget  it.  Katie  Reilly 
was  at  the  switchboard  and  I  was  standing  at 
the  window,  watching,  when  I  saw  the  two 
lights  of  the  gray  racer  coming  down  the 
street. 

I  ran  and  opened  the  door — I  wasn't  bash- 
ful a  bit — and  when  I  saw  him  I  gave  a  little 
cry,  for  he  looked  so  changed,  pale  and  hag- 
gard and  older,  a  good  many  years  older.  But 
his  smile  was  the  same,  and  so  was  the  kind, 
honest  look  of  his  face.  Before  he  said  a  word 
he  just  held  out  his  hand  and  mine  went  into 
it  and  I  felt  the  clasp  of  his  fingers  warm  and 
strong.  And — strange  it  is,  but  true — I 
wasn't  any  more  like  the  girl  who  used  to 
tremble  at  the  mere  sight  of  him,  but  was  calm 

257 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

and  quiet,  looking  deep  and  steady  into  his 
eyes  as  if  we'd  got  to  be  friends,  the  way  a 
man  might  be  friends  with  a  boy. 

"Miss  Morganthau,"  he  said,  "I've  heard 
what  you've  done,  and  I  want  to  thank  you." 

"You  needn't  have  taken  all  the  trouble  to 
come  in  from  Firehill,  Mr.  Reddy,"  I  an- 
swered. "You  could  have  said  it  over  the 
wire." 

"Could  I  have  done  this  over  the  wire?"  he 
said,  giving  my  hand  a  shake  and  a  squeeze. 
"You  know  I  couldn't.  And  that's  what  I 
wanted  to  do — take  a  grip  of  the  hand  that 
helped  me  out  of  prison." 

I  said  some  fool  words  about  its  being  noth- 
ing and  he  went  on  smiling  down  at  me,  yet 
with  something  grave  in  his  face. 

"I  want  to  do  more — ask  a  favor  of  you. 
I  hope  it  won't  be  hard  to  grant  for  I've  set 
my  heart  on  it.  Can  I  be  your  friend  ?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Reddy,"  I  stammered  out,  "you 
make  me  proud,"  and  suddenly  tears  came 
into  my  eyes.  I  don't  know  why  unless  it  was 

258 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

seeing  him  so  changed  and  hearing  him  speak 
so  humble  to  a  common  guy  like  me. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  said,  "don't  do  any- 
thing like  that.  You'll  make  me  think  you 
don't  like  the  idea." 

I  sniffed,  wanting  to  kick  Katie  Reilly,  who 
was  gaping  round  in  her  chair,  and  I  guess 
getting  mad  that  way  dried  up  my  tears. 

"It's  your  friend  I'll  be  till  the  end  of  my 
life,  Mr.  Reddy,"  I  answered.  "And  the 
only  thing  I'm  sorry  for  is  that  I  didn't 
get  the  right  man  the  way  I  thought  I'd 
done." 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  he,  his  face 
hardening  up,  "we'll  get  him  yet.  Don't  let's 
think  of  that  now.  It's  the  end  of  your  day, 
isn't  it?  If  you're  going  home  will  you  let  me 
take  you  there  in  my  car?" 

There  was  a  time  when  if  I'd  thought  I'd 
ever  ride  beside  Jack  Reddy  in  that  racer  I'd 
have  had  chills  and  fever  for  a  week  in  ad- 
vance. 

But  now  I  sat  calm  and  still  beside  him  as 
259 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

he  rode  me  through  Longwood  to  Mrs.  Gal- 
way's  door. 

As  we  swung  up  the  street  he  talked  very 
kind  to  me,  complimenting  me  something  aw- 
ful, and  saying  that  if  he  ever  could  do  any- 
thing for  me  to  let  him  know  and  he'd  do  it  if 
it  was  within  the  power  of  man. 

"You  see,  Miss  Morganthau,"  he  said  as 
we  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Elite,  "a  man  in 
my  position  feels  pretty  grateful  to  the  per- 
son who's  lifted  off  him  the  shadow  of  dis- 
grace and  death." 

Up  in  my  room  I  sat  quiet  for  a  long  time 
thinking.  The  thing  that  phased  me  was  why 
I'd  changed  so,  come  round  to  feel  that  while 
he  was  still  a  grand,  strong  man,  I'd  always 
look  up  to  and  do  anything  for,  I'd  quit  hav- 
ing blind  staggers  and  heart  attacks  when  he 
came  along. 

Something  had  sidetracked  me.     I  didn't 

know  what.     All  I  did  know  was  that  two 

i 

months  ago  if  he'd  asked  me  to  be  his  friend 
I'd  not  have  known  there  was  such  a  thing  as 

260 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

food  in  the  world.  And  that  evening  at  half- 
past  seven,  being  too  lazy  to  go  to  the  Gilt 
Edge,  I  was  so  hungry  I  had  to  go  down  to 
Mrs.  Galway  and  beg  the  loan  of  three  Unee- 
das  and  a  hard  boiled  egg. 

It  was  one  evening,  not  long  after,  that 
Anne  Hennessey  came  in  to  see  me.  Bab- 
bitts was  coming  that  night  and  Mrs.  Galway 
had  given  up  the  parlor  again  and  was  in  bed 
with  a  novel  and  a  kerosene  lamp.  Anne  was 
quite  excited,  the  reason  being  that  Mrs.  Fow- 
ler had  given  her  a  present.  She  took  it 
careful  out  of  a  blue  velvet  case  and 
held  it  up  in  the  glow  of  the  drop  light. 
It  was  a  diamond  cross  and  the  minute  I 
set  eyes  on  it  I  knew  where  I'd  seen  it  be- 
fore. 

"Sylvia's,"  I  said,  low  and  sort  of  awed. 

Anne  nodded. 

"Yes,  the  one  she  had  on  that  night.  Mrs. 
Fowler  said  she  wanted  to  give  me  something 
that  had  been  hers.  I  wouldn't  have  taken 
anything  so  handsome  but  I  think  the  poor 

261 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

lady  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  it,  reminding 
her  of  her  sorrow  as  it  did." 

She  moved  it  about  and  the  stones  sparkled 
like  bits  of  fire  in  the  lamplight.  I  stretched 
out  my  hand  and  took  it,  for  diamonds  tempt 
me  like  meat  the  hungry — that's  the  Jew  in 
me,  I  suppose. 

"You  won't  call  the  King  your  cousin  when 
you  wear  this,"  I  said,  and  I  held  it  against 
my  chest,  looking  down  at  the  brightness  of  it. 

"That's  just  where  Sylvia  had  it  on,"  said 
Anne  almost  in  a  whisper,  "where  the  front  of 
her  dress  crossed.  One  of  the  police  officers 
told  me." 

My  mother  was  a  Catholic  and  it's  Catholic 
I  was  raised,  for  though  my  father  was  a  Jew 
he  loved  my  mother  and  let  her  have  her  way 
with  me. 

"Wouldn't  you  think,"  I  said,  "that  when 
the  murderer  saw  the  cross  on  her  it  would 
have  stayed  his  hand?" 

"Wouldn't  you,"  said  Anne,  "but  to  men  as 
evil  as  that  the  cross  means  nothing.  And  then 

262 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

out  in  the  dark  that  way,  he  probably  never 
saw  it." 

Babbitts'  knock  sounding,  I  handed  it  back 
to  her  and  let  him  in,  feeling  bashful  before 
Anne,  who  didn't  know  how  often  Mrs.  Gal- 
way  was  retiring  at  eight-thirty.  She  left 
soon  after,  saying  Mrs.  Fowler  liked  her 
to  be  round  in  the  evening,  which  was  news 
to  me,  as  she'd  told  me  that  the  Fowlers 
always  sat  in  the  sitting-room  together,  the 
Doctor  reading  aloud  till  Mrs.  Fowler  got 
sleepy. 

After  she'd  gone,  Babbitts  and  I  drew  up  to 
the  stove,  cozy  and  cheerful,  with  our  feet  on 
the  edge  of  it.  We'd  come  to  know  each  other 
so  well  now  that  we'd  other  topics  beside  "the 
case,"  but  that  night  we  worked  around  to 
it,  me  picking  at  the  box  of  candy  Babbitts 
had  brought  and  rocking  lazily  as  contented 
as  a  child. 

Babbitts  was  still  keen  for  that  reward.  He 
said  to  me: 

"You  had  your  fingers  on  it  once,  and  it's 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

my  wish  that  you'll  get  your  whole  hand  on  it 
next  time." 

"What  a  noble  character,"  said  I,  "calculat- 
ing for  little  Molly  to  get  it  all!  Where  do 
you  come  in?" 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  me,"  says  he. 
"You've  a  bad  habit  of  thinking  too  much 
where  other  people  come  in.  You  got  to  quit 
it — it  isn't  good  business.  Now  what  I  want 
to  arrange  is  for  you  and  me  to  make  an  ex- 
cursion out  to  the  Wayside  Arbor  some  af- 
ternoon." 

"The  Wayside* Arbor— what'll  we  do  there?" 

"Take  a  look  over  the  ground.  You  see, 
with  the  process  of  elimination  that's  been 
going  on  things  have  narrowed  down  to  the 
vicinity  of  the  crime.  It's  my  opinion  that 
the  murder  was  not  only  committed  but  was 
planned  round  there.  The  police  are  losing 
heart  and  not  doing  much.  As  far  as  I  can 
find  out  Fowler's  detectives — Mills  and  his 
crowd — are  getting  their  pay  envelopes  regu- 
lar but  not  getting  anything  else.  Now — 

£64 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

just  for  devilment — let  us  combine  our  two 
giant  intellects  and  see  what  we  can  see." 

"Haven't  they  gone  over  every  inch  of  it?" 

"They  have — with  a  fine-tooth  comb.  But 
that  doesn't  prevent  us  going  over  it  and  tak- 
ing our  fine-tooth  combs  along." 

"Isn't  Hines  under  surveillance?" 

"Good  Lord,"  says  he  laughing,  "every- 
body's under  surveillance.  There's  not  one  of 
the  suspects  but  knows  he's  expected  to  stay 
put  and  is  doing  it.  But  who's  getting  any- 
where? There's  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't 
go  out  that  way,  call  on  Mrs.  Cresset,  and  take 
a  look  in  at  the  Wayside  Arbor  ourselves." 

"I'm  game,"  I  said,  "though  I  can't  see 
what  good  it's  going  to  do." 

"It'll  give  us  a  half-day  together,"  said  he. 
"I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it  but  that 
looks  worth  while  to  me." 

We  made  a  date  for  the  following  Monday, 
my  holiday,  just  eight  weeks  from  the  mur- 
der. 

The  next  morning  I  had  a  surprise — a  kind 
265 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

that  hasn't  often  come  my  way.  It  was  a  let- 
ter directed  in  typewriting  with  a  half -sheet 
of  paper  inside  it  inclosing  a  fifty-dollar  bill. 
On  the  paper,  also  typed,  was  written: 

For  Miss  Morganthau — A  small  return  for 

her  recent  good  work  in  the  Hesketh 

Murder  Case. 

That  was  all — no  name,  no  date,  no  hand- 
writing. I  don't  know  what  made  me  think 
right  off  of  Mr.  Whitney,  unless  it  was  be- 
cause there  was  no  one  else  who  knew  of  what 
I'd  done  and  could  have  afforded  to  send  that 
much.  The  only  other  person  it  could  have 
been  was  Jack  Reddy,  and  somehow  or  other, 
after  he'd  asked  me  to  be  his  friend,  I  felt 
certain  he  wouldn't  send  me  money,  no  mat- 
ter what  I'd  done  for  him.  Friends  don't  pay 
each  other. 

I  guess  there  wasn't  a  more  elated  person  in 
Longwood  that  morning  than  yours  truly. 
I'd  had  that  much  before — saved  it — but  I'd 

*66 


'I  caiiic  down  to  tin-  j>;irlor  where  Babbitts  was  waiting* 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

never  had  it  fall  out  of  the  sky  that  way  in 
one  beautiful,  crisp,  new  bill. 

The  Jew  and  the  Irish  in  me  had  some  tus- 
sle, one  wanting  to  salt  it  down  in  the  bank 
and  the  other  to  blow  it  in.  But  that  time  the 
Irish  had  a  walk-over,  probably  because  I  was 
limp  and  weary  with  all  the  excitement  of  the 
last  two  months  and  felt  the  need  of  doing 
something  foolish  to  tone  me  up.  When  I 
thought  of  the  clothes  I  could  buy  with  it,  the 
Jew  just  lay  down  without  a  murmur  and 
you'd  have  supposed  I  was  all  County  Galway 
if  you'd  seen  me  writing  a  list  of  things  on  the 
back  of  the  envelope.  If  it'll  make  you  think 
better  of  me  I'll  confess  that  I  wanted  to  look 
nice  on  that  trip  with  Babbitts,  the  first  real 
jaunt  we'd  ever  taken,  for  I  didn't  count  those 
times  in  New  York  when  we  were  sleuthing 
after  Cokesbury.  Just  once  in  my  life  I  was 
going  to  have  a  real  blowout,  and  I  wanted  the 
chap  who  was  taking  me  to  feel  he'd  some  lady 
with  him. 

With  three  of  us  in  the  office  I  fixed  things 
267 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

so  I  got  Saturday  afternoon  and  I  hiked  over 
to  town  with  that  bill  burning  in  my  purse  like 
a  live  coal.  And,  my  it  was  great  spending 
it !  I  was  cool  on  the  outside,  looking  haughty 
at  the  goods  and  casting  them  aside  contemp- 
tuous on  chairs,  but  inside  I  was  drunk  with 
the  feeling  of  riches. 

I  bought  a  one-piece  silk  dress  that  fitted 
me  like  every  measure  was  mine  and  a  long 
black  plush  coat,  rich  fine  plush  like  satin,  that 
was  draped  something  elegant  and  fastened  in 
front  with  a  novelty  ornament.  For  a  hat  I 
selected  a  small  dark  felt,  nothing  flashy,  no 
trimming,  just  a  rosette  at  one  side.  And 
with  the  last  three  dollars  a  purse,  black  striped 
silk,  oval  shaped  with  a  ribbon  to  hang  it  to 
your  wrist. 

It  was  six  when  I  got  home,  carrying  the 
boxes  myself — all  but  the  coat;  that  I  had  to 
wear — pretty  nearly  dead  with  the  weight  of 
them,  but  not  regretting — neither  the  Jew  nor 
the  Irish — one  nickel  of  it. 

Midday  Monday,  when  I  came  down  to  the 
268 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

parlor  where  Babbitts  was  waiting,  he  put  his 
hand  over  his  eyes  like  the  Indians  in  front  of 
cigar  stores  and  pretended  to  stagger. 

"What  good  deed  have  I  ever  done,"  says 
he,  "that  I'm  allowed  to  walk  the  world  with 
such  a  queen!" 

Then  I  felt  certain  that  to  break  loose  now 
and  again  is  a  healthy  change. 


XVI 

IT  was  a  long  ride  to  Cresset's  Crossing, 
first  on  the  main  line  to  the  Junction  and 
then  just  time  to  make  a  close  connection 
with  the  branch  line  to  the  Crossing. 

It  was  three  when  we  reached  there  and 
started  out  to  walk  to  Cresset's  Farm.  There'd 
been  rain  the  day  before  and  the  road  was 
muddy,  with  water  standing  here  and  there  in 
the  ruts.  The  weather  was  still  overcast,  the 
sky  covered  with  clouds,  heavy  and  leaden  col- 
ored. It  was  cold,  a  raw,  piercing  air,  and 
we  walked  fast,  I — careful  of  my  new  dress — 
picking  my  steps  on  the  edge  of  the  road  and 
Babbitts  tramping  along  in  the  mud  beside  me. 

I'd  never  been  up  there  at  that  season  and 
I  thought  it  was  a  gloomy,  lonesome  spot. 
The  land  rolled  away  with  fences  creeping 

370 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

across  it  like  gray  snakes.  Here  and  there 
were  clumps  of  woods,  purplish  against  the 
sky,  and  between  them  the  brown  stretches  of 
plowed  land,  that  in  the  springtime  would 
be  green  with  the  grain.  Now,  under  those 
dark,  low-hanging  clouds  with  the  naked  trees 
and  the  bare,  empty  fields,  it  looked  forlorn 
and  dreary.  It  was  as  still  as  a  picture,  not  a 
thing  moving,  but  one  man,  someways 
off,  walking  along  the  top  of  a  hill.  You 
could  see  him  like  a  silhouette,  going  slow, 
with  a  bundle  on  a  stick  over  his  shoulder,  and 
a  bit  of  red  round  his  neck.  When  he  got  to 
the  highest  point  he  stopped  and  looked  down 
on  the  road.  He  couldn't  see  us — the  trees  in- 
terfered— and  he  seemed,  as  Babbitts  said,  like 
the  spirit  of  the  landscape — sort  of  desolate 
and  lonely,  plodding  along  there,  solitary  and 
slow,  between  the  earth  and  the  sky.  Then 
presently  even  he  was  gone,  disappearing  over 
the  brow  of  the  hill. 

When  we  passed  the  Riven  Rock  Road  and 
I  could  see  the  Firehill  one,  making  a  curv- 

271 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

ing  line  through  the  country  beyond,  I  had  a 
creepy  feeling,  thinking  of  what  had  happened 
there  eight  weeks  ago. 

"Where's  the  place?"  I  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  and  Babbitts  pointed  ahead  with  his 
cane. 

"A  little  further  on,  where  the  bushes  grow 
thick  there." 

Right  along  from  the  station,  clumps  and 
bunches  of  small  trees  had  edged  the  way  like 
a  hedge.  After  we  passed  the  Riven  Rock 
Road  they  grew  thicker,  making  a  sort  of 
shrubbery  higher  than  our  heads.  I  remem- 
bered that  just  before  the  murder  men  had 
been  cutting  these  for  brushwood  and  even 
now  we  passed  piles  of  branches,  dry  and  dead, 
with  little  leaves  clinging  to  them  like  brown 
rags.  Where  the  Firehill  Road  ran  into  the 
turnpike  the  growth  was  tangled  and  close, 
almost  a  small  wood. 

It  wasn't  far  beyond  that  Babbitts  pointed 
out  the  place.  There  was  an  edge  of  shriv- 
eled grass  and  on  this  she  had  been  found  with 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

the  branches  piled  over  her.  He  drew  with 
his  cane  where  she  had  lain  between  the  trees 
and  the  road. 

"You  can  see  just  how  the  murderer 
worked,"  he  said.  "He  attacked  Miss  Hes- 
keth  here,  burst  out  of  the  darkness  on  her 
and  killed  her  with  one  blow — you  remember 
there  was  no  sign  either  about  her  or  the  sur- 
roundings of  a  struggle — and  almost  imme- 
diately heard  the  Doctor's  auto  horn.  We  can 
place  that  by  the  scream  the  Bohemian  woman 
heard." 

"Do  you  think  he  was  there  when  the  Doc- 
tor passed?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course  he  was.  He  hadn't  had  time  to 
arrange  the  body.  That  was  done  after  the 
Doctor  had  gone  by — done  after  the  moon 
came  out.  Reddy  said  it  was  as  bright  as  day 
when  he  got  there.  By  that  brightness  the 
murderer  did  the  work  of  concealment." 

I  stepped  back  into  the  mud  and  looked 
down  to  where  the  Firehill  Road  entered  the 
turnpike  a  few  yards  farther  on. 

273 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"He  must  have  heard  Mr.  Reddy's  horn  be- 
fore the  car  came  in  sight.  By  that  time  he 
had  probably  finished  and  stolen  away." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Babbitts.  "He 
couldn't  have  done  it  without  some  noise  and 
Reddy,  who  was  listening  and  watching  for 
Sylvia,  was  positive  there  wasn't  a  sound. 
That  human  devil  was  back  among  the  bushes 
when  Reddy's  car  came  round  the  turn.  And 
he  must  have  stayed  there — afraid  to  move — 
watching  Reddy,  first  as  he  waited,  then  as  he 
slowly  ran  back  and  forth.  God,  what  a  situ- 
ation— one  man  looking  for  the  woman  he 
loved,  her  murderer  hidden  a  few  yards  from 
him,  and  between  them  both  her  dead  body!" 

I  seemed  to  see  it :  the  road  bathed  in  moon- 
light, the  murderer  huddled  down  in  the  black 
shadow,  and  Reddy  in  the  car  looking  now 
this  way  and  now  that,  expecting  her  to  come. 
How  terribly  still  it  must  have  been,  not  a 
sound  except  the  rustling  of  the  withered 
leaves.  I  could  imagine  the  light  from  the 
racer's  lamps,  shooting  out  in  two  long  yel- 

274 


THE    GIRL    AT    CENTRAL 

low  rays,  showing  every  rut  and  ridge,  so  that 
that  grim  watching  face  had  to  draw  down 
lower  still  in  the  darkness  of  the  underbrush. 
Did  he  know  who  Reddy  was  waiting  for? 
What  did  he  feel  when  the  auto  moved  and 
one  swerve  sideways  would  have  sent  those 
yellow  rays  over  the  heap  of  branches  on  the 
grass?  As  Babbitts  said,  he  must  have  been 
afraid  to  move,  must  have  cowered  there  and 
seen  the  racer  glide  away  and  then  come  back ; 
and  still  bent  behind  the  network  of  twigs 
have  watched  the  man  at  the  wheel,  as  he 
looked  up  and  down  the  road,  waited  and  lis- 
tened, every  now  and  then  sounding  the  horn, 
that  broke  into  the  silence  like  a  weird,  hollow 
cry. 

"Oh,  come  on,"  I  said  suddenly,  seizing 
Babbitts'  arm.  "Let's  go  up  to  Cresset's 
where  it's  bright  and  cheerful." 

We  had  a  lovely  time  at  Cresset's.  My,  but 
they  were  a  nice  family!  Farmer  Cresset,  a 
big,  kind,  jolly  man  and  his  two  sons,  splen- 
did, sun-burned  chaps,  and  his  little  daughter, 

275 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

as  fresh  as  a  peach  and  as  shy  as  a  kitten.  I 
loved  them  all,  and  Mrs.  Cresset  best.  She 
made  me  think  of  my  mother,  not  that  she 
looked  like  her,  but  I  guess  because  she  had 
something  about  her  that's  about  all  women 
who've  had  families  they  loved. 

They  gave  us  tea  and  cake  and  they  joked 
Babbitts  good  and  hard  about  coming  out 
there  and  pretending  to  be  a  tourist. 

"Never  mind,  son,"  Farmer  Cresset  said, 
"you  got  it  out  of  the  old  woman.  I  couldn't 
make  her  tell ;  seemed  like  she  thought  she'd  be 
arrested  for  the  crime  if  she  up  and  confessed 
about  that  feller." 

It  was  getting  on  for  evening  when  we  left 
to  go  to  the  Wayside  Arbor.  We'd  planned 
to  have  our  supper  there  and  then  go  back 
by  the  branch  line,  catching  a  train  at 
the  Crossing  at  eight-thirty.  The  Cres- 
sets were  real  sorry  to  have  us  go,  especially 
there. 

"It  ain't  a  nice  place,"  said  Mrs.  Cresset,  as 
she  kissed  me  good-bye,  "but  we're  hoping  to 

276 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

see  it  cleared  out  soon.  Tom's  stirring  Heaven 
and  earth  to  get  Hines'  license  revoked." 

"I  guess  Heaven's  lending  a  hand,"  said 
the  farmer,  "for  I  hear  Hines'  business  is  bad 
since  the  fatality.  We've  a  lot  of  foreign  la- 
bor round  here  and  they're  mighty  supersti- 
tious and  are  giving  his  place  the  go-by." 

It  was  dark  when  we  saw  the  lights  of  the 
Wayside  Arbor,  shining  out  across  the  road. 
We'd  expected  a  moon  to  light  us  home,  but 
the  clouds,  though  they  weren't  as  thick  as 
they  had  been,  were  all  broken  up  into  little 
bits  over  the  sky,  like  Heaven  was  paved  with 
them. 

The  Arbor  was  quiet  as  we  stepped  up  and 
opened  the  bar  door,  and  there,  just  like  on 
the  night  of  the  murder,  was  Hines,  sitting  by 
the  stove  reading  a  newspaper.  He  jumped 
up  quick  and  greeted  us  very  cordial  and  you 
could  see  he  was  glad  to  get  a  customer.  He 
sure  was  a  tough  looking  specimen  with  a  gray 
stubble  all  over  his  chin,  and  a  dirty  sweater 
hanging  open  over  a  dirtier  shirt  that  had  no 

277 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

collar  and  was  fastened  with  a  fake  gold  but- 
ton that  left  a  black  mark  on  his  neck.  If  I 
thought  his  looks  were  bad  that  day  in  the 
summer  I  thought  they  were  worse  now,  for  he 
seemed  more  down  and  dispirited  than  he  was 
then. 

We  asked  him  if  we  could  have  supper  and 
he  went  out,  calling  to  Mrs.  Hines,  and  we 
could  hear  someone  clattering  down  the  stairs 
and  then  a  whispering  going  on  in  the  hall. 
When  he  came  back  he  said  they'd  get  us  a 
cold  lunch,  but  they  didn't  keep  a  great  deal 
on  hand,  seeing  as  how  they  hadn't  much  call 
for  meals  at  that  season. 

You  could  see  that  was  true.  I  never  was  in 
such  a  miserable,  poverty-stricken  hole.  Leav- 
ing Babbitts  talking  to  Hines  in  the  bar,  I 
went  back  into  the  dining-room,  a  long,  shabby 
place  that  crossed  the  rear  of  the  house.  It 
was  as  dingy  as  the  rest  of  it,  with  the  paper 
all  smudged  and  peeling  off  the  walls  and 
worn  bits  of  carpet  laid  over  the  board  floor. 
At  the  back  two  long  windows  looked  out  on 

278 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

the  garden.  Glancing  through  these  I  could 
see  the  arch  of  the  arbor,  with  the  wet  shining 
on  the  tables  and  a  few  withered  leaves  trem- 
bling on  the  vines. 

When  I  turned  back  to  the  room  I  got  a 
queer  kind  of  scare — a  thing  I  would  have 
laughed  at  anywhere  else,  but  in  that  house  on 
that  night  it  turned  me  creepy.  There  was  a 
long,  old-fashioned  mirror  on  the  opposite 
wall  with  a  crack  going  straight  across  the 
middle  of  it.  As  I  caught  my  reflection  in  it, 
I  raised  my  head,  wanting  to  get  the  effect 
of  my  new  hat,  and  it  brought  the  crack  ex- 
actly across  my  neck.  Believe  me  I  jumped 
and  then  stood  staring,  for  it  looked  just  as 
if  my  throat  was  cut!  Then  I  moved  away 
from  it,  pulling  up  my  collar,  ashamed  of 
myself  but  all  the  same  keeping  out  of  range 
of  the  mirror. 

In  the  bar  I  could  hear  the  voices  of  Bab- 
bitts and  Hines,  Hines  droning  on  like  a  per- 
son who's  complaining.  From  behind  a  door 
at  the  far  end  of  the  room  came  a  noise  of 

279 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

crockery  and  pans  and  then  a  woman's  voice, 
peevish  and  scolding,  and  another  woman's  an- 
swering back.  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  in  a 
place  that  got  on  my  nerves  so  and  what  with 
the  cold  of  the  room — it  was  like  a  barn  with 
no  steam  and  the  stove  not  lit — I  sat  all 
hunched  up  in  my  coat  thinking  of  Sylvia 
Hesketh  coming  there  for  shelter! 

Suddenly  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  room 
opened  and  Mrs.  Hines  came  in.  She  was  the 
match  of  it  all,  with  her  red  nose  and  her  little 
watery  eyes  and  her  shoes  dropping  off  at 
every  step  so  you  could  hear  the  heels  rapping 
on  the  boards  where  the  carpet  stopped.  She 
began  talking  in  a  whining  voice,  and  as  she 
set  the  table,  told  me  how  the  business  had  gone 
off,  and  they  didn't  know  what  they  were  go- 
ing to  do. 

Her  hands,  all  chapped  and  full  of  knots 
like  twigs,  smoothed  out  the  cloth  and  put  on 
the  china  so  listless  it  made  you  tired  to  look 
at  them.  It  was  better  talking  to  her  than  sit- 
ting dumb  with  no  company  but  dismal 

280 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

thoughts,  so  I  encouraged  her  and  between  her 
trailings  into  the  kitchen  and  her  trailings  out 
I  heard  all  about  their  affairs. 

For  a  while  after  the  murder  they'd  done  a 
lot  of  business — it  made  me  sort  of  shrivel  up 
to  see  she  didn't  mind  that;  anything  that 
brought  trade  was  all  the  same  to  her — but 
now,  nothing  \vas  doing.  Only  a  few  auto- 
mobiles stopped  there  and  the  farmhands  had 
dropped  off,  so  their  custom  hardly  counted. 
And  Tecla  Rabine,  the  Bohemian  servant,  who 
was  a  first-class  girl,  if  she  did  have  grouchy 
spells,  had  got  so  slack  she'd  have  to  be  fired, 
and  she,  Mrs.  Hines,  didn't  see  how  she  was  to 
get  another  one  what  with  the  low  wages  and 
the  lonesomeness. 

She  trailed  off  into  the  kitchen  again  and  I 
could  hear  her  snapping  at  someone  and  that 
other  woman's  voice  growling  back.  I  sup- 
posed it  was  Tecla  Rabine,  though  it  didn't 
sound  like  her,  my  memory  of  her  at  the  in- 
quest being  of  a  fat,  good-natured  thing  that 
wouldn't  have  growled  at  anybody.  And  then 

281 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

the  door  was  opened  with  one  swift  kick  and 
Tecla  came  in,  carrying  a  plate  of  bread  in 
one  hand  and  a  platter  with  ham  on  it  in  the 
other.  She  didn't  look  grouchy  at  all,  but 
gave  me  that  broad,  silly  sort  of  smile  I  re- 
membered and  put  the  things  down  on  the 
table! 

"Well,  Tecla,"  I  asked  for  something  to 
say,  "how  are  you  getting  on?" 

"Ach!"  she  answered  disgusted,  and  pound- 
ed over  the  creaky  floor  to  a  cupboard  out  of 
which  she  took  some  dishes.  "Me?  I  get  out. 
What  for  do  I  stay?  No  luck  here,  no  money. 
Who  comes — nobody.  Everything  goes  on 
the  blink." 

She  put  the  things  on  the  table  and 
then  stood  looking  at  me,  squinting  up  her 
little  eyes  and  with  her  big  body,  in  a 
dirty  white  blouse  and  a  skirt  that  didn't 
meet  it  at  the  waist,  slouched  up  against  the 
table. 

"I  heard  business  was  bad,"  I  said,  arid 
thought  that  in  spite  of  her  being  such  a 

282 


THE   GIRL  AT   CENTRAL 

coarse,  fat  animal,  she  was  rosy  and  healthy 
looking,  which  was  more  than  you  could  say 
for  the  other  two. 

"What  do  I  get?"  she  said,  spreading  out 
her  great  red  hands,  "not  a  thing.  Maybe 
five,  ten  cents.  Every  long  time  maybe  a  quar- 
ter. Since  that  lady  gets  killed  all  goes  bad. 
The  dagoes  say  'evil  eye.'  They  walk  round 
the  house  that  way,"  she  made  a  half-circle  in 
the  air  with  her  arm,  "looking  at  it  afraid. 
Me,  too,  I  don't  like  it." 

"It  sure  is  awful  dismal,"  I  agreed. 

"No  good,"  she  said.  "Last  year  this  time 
all  the  room  full — to-night — one  man" — she 
held  up  a  finger  in  the  air — "one  only  man,  and 
he  have  lost  what  makes  us  to  laugh.  When  I 
see  him,  I  say,  'Hein,  Tito,  good  luck  now  you 
come.  Make  the  bear  to  dance.'  An  he  says 
this  way" — she  hunched  up  her  shoulders  and 
pushed  out  her  hands  the  way  the  Guineas  do 

*  'Oh,  Gawda,  there  is  no  more  bear ;  he 
makes  dead  long  time.' ' 

"Bear?"  I  said,  and  then  I  remembered. 
283 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"You  mean  the  one  that  went  round  with  the 
acrobats.    It's  dead,  is  it?" 

Tecla  nodded. 

"Gone  dead  in  the  country.  And  he  says  he 
starve  now  with  no  bear  to  get  pennies.  The 
boss  says  we  all  starve,  and  gave  him  a  drink 
and  cheese  and  bread.  Ach!" — she  shook  her 
head,  as  if  the  loss  of  the  bear  was  the  last 
straw — "I  no  can  stand  it — nothing  doing,  no 
money,  no  more  laughs — I  quit." 

I  didn't  blame  her.  If  you  gave  me 
two  hundred  a  month  I  wouldn't  have  stayed 
there. 

Just  then  Babbitts  came  in  and  we  began 
our  supper ;  cold  ham  and  stale  bread  and  cof- 
fee that  I  know  was  the  morning's  heated  over. 
Tecla  went  into  the  kitchen  and  I  said  to  him, 
low  and  guarded: 

"What's  Hines  been  saying  to  you?" 

He  answered  in  the  same  key: 

"Oh,  putting  up  a  hard  luck  story.  Cres- 
set needn't  bother.  He  wants  to  pull  up  stakes 
and  go  West." 

284 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

"Will  they  let  him?" 

"That's  one  of  the  things  he's  been  talking 
about.  He  says  if  he  makes  a  move  it'll  look 
suspicious,  and  if  he  stays  he'll  be  ruined.  He 
certainly  is  up  against  it." 

I  shot  a  glance  from  the  kitchen  to  the  bar 
door  and  then  leaned  across  the  table,  almost 
whispering : 

"I  don't  see  that  our  investigations  have 
got  us  anything  but  a  bad  supper." 

"Neither  do  I,"  he  whispered  back.  "The 
place  looks  like  a  stage  setting  for  The  Ban- 
dits' Den,  but  the  people  don't  impress  me  that 
way  at  all." 

The  kitchen  door  swung  back  and  Mrs. 
Hines  came  in  with  a  pumpkin  pie  that  tasted 
like  it  was  baked  for  Thanksgiving.  She  hov- 
ered round,  fussing  about  us  and  joining  in 
the  conversation.  You  could  see  she  was  hun- 
gry for  someone  to  talk  to.  Both  she  and  her 
husband  impressed  me  that  way,  as  if  they 
were  most  crazy  with  the  dreariness  of  the 
place,  and  were  ready  to  fasten  on  anybody 

285 


THE   GIRL   AT  CENTRAL 

who'd  speak  civil  to  them  and  listen  to  their 
troubles. 

Before  we  left,  Babbitts  went  into  the  bar 
to  settle  up  and  I,  remembering  Tecla's  com- 
plaints, called  her  in  from  the  kitchen  and 
fished  a  quarter  out  of  my  new  purse.  She 
was  as  pleased  as  a  child,  grinning  all  over, 
and  wanting  to  shake  hands  with  me,  which  I 
hated  but  couldn't  avoid. 

When  we  were  once  more  in  the  road  I  gave 
a  gasp  of  relief.  I  felt  as  if  I'd  crept  out  from 
under  a  shadow,  that  was  gradually  sinking 
into  me,  down  to  the  marrow  of  my  bones. 
The  night  was  cold,  but  a  different  kind ;  fresh 
and  clear,  the  smell  of  the  damp  fields  in  the 
air,  and  the  country  quiet  and  peaceful. 

We  had  a  good  two  miles  before  us  and 
stepped  out  lively.  It  was  dark;  the  clouds 
mottled  over  the  sky;  and  in  one  place,  where 
the  moon  was  hidden,  a  little  brightness  show- 
ing through  the  cracks.  Babbitts  said  he 
thought  they'd  break  and  that  we'd  have  the 
moonlight  on  our  way  back. 

286 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

All  around  us  the  landscape  stretched  black 
and  still.  When  you  got  accustomed  to  it, 
you  could  see  the  outlines  of  the  hills  against 
the  sky,  one  darkness  set  against  another,  and 
the  line  of  the  road  showing  faint  between  the 
edgings  of  bushes.  We  couldn't  hear  any- 
thing but  our  own  footsteps,  soft  and  padding 
because  of  the  mud,  and  off  and  on  the  rust- 
ling of  the  twigs  as  I  brushed  against  them. 
I  don't  remember  ever  being  out  on  a  quieter 
night,  and  there  was  something  lovely  and 
soothing  about  it  after  that  horrible  house. 

We  hadn't  gone  far — about  ten  minutes,  I 
should  think — when  I  suddenly  clasped  my 
wrist  and  felt  that  my  purse  was  gone.  I  had 
taken  it  off  to  give  Tecla  the  quarter  and  I 
remember  I'd  laid  it  on  the  supper  table  when 
she  made  me  shake  hands. 

"Oh  dear!"  I  said,  stopping  short.  "What 
shall  I  do — I've  left  my  purse  there." 

Babbitts  stared  at  me  through  the  dark. 

"At  Hines'?" 

"Yes,  on  the  supper  table.  And  it's  new, 
287 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

I'd  only  just  bought  it.    Oh,  I  can't  lose  it." 

"You  needn't.  We've  time,  but  you'll  have 
to  hit  up  the  pace.  Come  on  quick — that's 
not  just  the  place  I'd  select  to  leave  a  purse 
in." 

He  turned  to  go  but  I  stood  still.  I  hated 
going  back  there  and  it  was  lovely  walking 
slowly  along  through  the  sharp  chill  air  and 
the  peaceful  night. 

"You  go,"  I  said,  coaxing.  "I'll  saunter  on 
and  you  can  catch  me  up." 

"Don't  you  mind  being  alone?  Aren't  you 
afraid?" 

"Afraid?"  I  gave  a  laugh.  "I'm  much 
more  afraid  in  that  queer  joint.  Besides,  I 
can't  go  as  fast  as  you  can  and  whatever  hap- 
pens we've  got  to  catch  that  train." 

"If  you  don't  mind  that's  the  best  plan. 
I'll  run  both  ways." 

"Then  hustle  and  I'll  walk  on  slowly.  But 
come  whether  you  find  the  purse  or  not,  for 
that's  the  last  train  to  the  Junction  to-night, 
and  we  mustn't  lose  it." 

288 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

"Right  you  are,  and  we  won't  lose  anything, 
the  train  or  the  purse.  I'll  make  it  a  rush  or- 
der. Go  slow  till  I  come." 

He  turned  and  went  off  at  a  run  and  I 
walked  on.  At  first  I  could  hear  the  thud  of 
his  feet  quite  plainly  and  then  the  sound  was 
suddenly  deadened  and  I  knew  he  was  on  the 
moist  turf  by  the  roadside.  The  silence  closed 
down  around  me  like  a  black  curtain  that 
seemed  to  be  shutting  me  off  from  the  rest 
of  the  world.  I  walked  on  slowly,  gathering 
my  skirts  up  from  the  wet  and  the  twigs,  as 
noiseless  as  a  shadow  in  the  dark  of  the  trees. 

I  don't  know  how  much  further  I  went,  but 
not  very  far  because  I  could  just  make  out  the 
line  of  the  Firehill  Road  curving  down  be- 
tween the  fields,  when  I  heard  behind  me  a  fit- 
ful, stealthy  rustling  in  the  bushes. 


XVII 

IN  beginning  this  chapter,  which  is  going 
to  end  my  story  of  the  Hesketh  Mystery, 
I  want  to  say  right  here  that  I'm  no  coward. 
The  reason  that  things  happened  as  they  did 
was  that  I  was  worn  out — more  than  I  knew — 
by  the  strain  and  excitement  of  the  last  two 
months.  Also  I  do  think  that  most  any  girl 
would  have  lost  her  nerve  if  she'd  been  up 
against  what  I  was. 

The  gloom  of  that  dreadful  Wayside  Ar- 
bor was  still  on  me  as  I  walked  along  with 
Babbitts.  After  a  few  moments  I  thought  it 
had  gone  off  and  when  I  told  him  I  wasn't 
afraid  I  said  what  seemed  to  me  the  truth. 
But  when  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  died 
away,  the  loneliness  crept  in  on  me,  seemed  to 
be  telling  me  something  that  I  didn't  want  to 

290 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

hear.  Down  deep  I  knew  what  it  was,  and 
that  every  step  was  taking  me  closer  to  what 
I  was  afraid  of — the  place  where  Sylvia  Hes- 
keth  had  been  murdered. 

It  was  when  I  was  peering  out  ahead,  try- 
ing to  locate  it,  telling  myself  not  to  be  a  fool 
and  gathering  up  my  courage,  that  I  heard 
that  faint,  stealthy  rustling  behind  me. 

I  stopped  dead,  listening.  I  was  scared  but 
not  clear  through  yet,  for  I  knew  it  might  be 
some  little  animal,  a  rabbit  or  a  chipmunk, 
creeping  through  the  underbrush.  I  stood 
waiting,  feeling  that  I  was  breathing  fast,  and 
as  still  as  one  of  the  telegraph  poles  along  the 
road.  The  trees  hid  me  completely.  A  per- 
son could  have  passed  close  by  and  not  seen 
me  standing  there  in  my  black  cloak  against 
the  black  background. 

Then  I  heard  it  again,  very  soft  ana  cau- 
tious, a  crackle  of  branches  and  then  a  wait, 
and  presently — it  seemed  hours — a  crackle  of 
branches  again.  I  moved  forward,  stepping 
on  tiptoe,  stifling  my  breath,  my  head  turned 

291 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

sideways,  listening,  listening  with  every  nerve. 
Even  then  I  wasn't  so  terribly  frightened,  but 
I  was  shivery,  shivery  down  to  my  heart,  for  I 
could  hear  that,  whether  it  was  beast  or  hu- 
man, it  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  trees,  just 
a  little  way  back,  going  the  way  I  was. 

It  only  took  a  few  minutes — me  stealing 
forward  and  it  coming  on,  now  soft  as  it 
stepped  on  the  earth,  now  with  a  twig  snap- 
ping sharp — to  tell  me  I  was  being  followed. 

When  I  got  that  clear,  the  last  of  my  cour- 
age melted  away.  If  it  had  been  anywhere 
else,  if  it  hadn't  been  so  dark,  if  there'd  been 
a  house  or  a  person  within  call,  but,  oh,  Lord, 
in  that  lonesomeness,  far  off  from  everything 
— it  was  awful!  And  the  awfullest  part  was 
that  right  there  in  front  of  me,  getting  nearer 
every  minute,  was  the  place  where  another  girl 
had  been  murdered  on  a  night  like  this. 

I  tried  to  pull  myself  together,  to  remem- 
ber that  Babbitts  would  be  back  soon,  but  I 
couldn't  stop  my  heart  from  beating  like  a 
hammer,  terrible  thuds  up  in  my  throat.  Way 

292 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

off  through  the  trees  I  could  see  the  twinkle 
of  Cresset's  lights  and  I  thought  of  them 
there;  but  it  was  as  if  they  were  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  too  far  for  me  to  reach  them 
or  for  them  to  hear  my  call. 

I  don't  know  why  I  walked  on,  but  I  think 
it  was  pure  fear.  I  was  afraid  if  I  stopped 
that  dreadful  following  thing  would  overtake 
me.  Once  I  tried  to  look  back  but  I  couldn't. 
I  thought  I  might  see  it  and  I  stole  forward, 
now  and  then  stopping  and  listening  and  every 
time  hearing  the  crackle  and  snap  of  the  twigs 
as  it  crept  after  me.  I  could  see  now  the  place 
where  Sylvia  was  found,  the  shrubs  curving 
back  from  the  road  as  if  to  leave  a  space  wide 
enough  for  her  body. 

The  sight  made  me  stop  and,  as  I  stood 
there  still  as  a  statue,  I  heard  the  sounds  be- 
hind me  get  louder,  as  if  a  big  body  was  feel- 
ing and  pushing  its  way  between  the  trees,  not 
so  careful  now,  but  trampling  and  crushing 
through  the  interlaced  boughs.  Then  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  I  knew  what  it  means  when 

293 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

they  say  your  hair  stands  on  end.  Down  at 
the  roots  of  mine  there  was  a  stirring  all  over 
my  head  and  my  heart!  It  was  banging 
against  my  chest,  blow  after  blow,  as  if  it  was 
trying  to  break  a  hole. 

The  sky  began  to  brighten.  I  got  a  sort  of 
impression  of  those  cracks  in  the  clouds  part- 
ing and  the  moonlight  leaking  through ;  but  I 
didn't  seem  to  see  it  plain,  everything  in  me 
was  turned  to  terror.  The  noise  behind  me 
was  closer  and  louder  and  through  it  I  heard 
a  breathing,  deep,  panting  breaths,  drawn 
hard.  Then  I  knew  if  I  turned  I  could  have 
seen  what  was  following  me,  seen  its  awful 
face,  glaring  between  the  branches  and  its 
bent  body,  crouched,  ready  to  spring. 

It's  hard  for  me  to  tell  what  followed — 
everything  came  together  and  I  couldn't  see 
or  think.  I  remember  trying  to  scream,  to 
give  one  shriek  for  Babbitts,  and  no  sound 
coming,  and  that  the  thing,  as  if  it  knew  what 
I  was  doing,  made  a  sudden  crashing  close  at 
my  back.  The  brightness  of  the  sky  flashed 

294 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

in  my  eyes.  I  saw  the  clouds  broken  open, 
and  the  moon,  big  and  white,  whirling  round 
like  a  silver  plate.  I  tried  to  run  but  the  earth 
rose  up  in  waves  and  I  staggered  forward  over 
them,  wave  after  wave,  with  the  moon  spin- 
ning close  to  my  eyes,  and  then  blackness 
shutting  down  like  the  lid  of  a  box. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  was  the  sky  with 
clouds  all  over  it  and  in  one  place  an  opening 
with  a  little  star  as  big  as  a  pinhead  set  in  the 
middle.  I  looked  at  that  star  for  a  long  time, 
having  a  queer  feeling  that  I  was  holding  on 
to  it  and  it  was  pulling  me  up.  Then  I  felt 
as  if  something  was  helping  the  star,  a  strong 
support  under  my  shoulders  that  raised  me 
still  further,  and  while  I  seemed  to  be  strug- 
gling out  of  a  darkness  like  water,  I  heard 
Babbitts'  voice  close  to  my  ear: 

"Thank  God,  she's  coming  out  of  it." 

I  turned  my  head  and  there  was  his  face 

close  to  mine.    A  strong  yellow  light  shone  on 

it — afterward  I  saw  it  came  from  a  lantern 

on    the    ground — and    without    speaking    I 

295 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

looked  into  his  eyes,  and  had  a  lovely  feeling 
of  rest  as  if  I'd  found  something  I  was  look- 
ing for. 

"You're  all  right?"  he  said;  "you're  not 
hurt?" 

"I'm  very  well,  thank  you,"  I  said  back, 
and  my  voice  was  like  a  whisper. 

The  support  under  my  shoulders  tightened, 
drew  me  up  against  him,  and  he  bent  down 
and  kissed  me. 

We  said  no  more,  but  stayed  that  way,  look- 
ing at  each  other.  I  didn't  want  to  move  or 
speak.  I  didn't  feel  anything  or  care  about 
anything.  It  seemed  like  Babbitts  and  I  were 
the  only  two  people  in  the  whole  world,  as  if 
there  was  no  world,  just  us,  and  all  the  rest 
nothing. 

After  that — he's  often  told  me  it  was  only 
a  minute  or  two,  though  if  you'd  asked  me  I'd 
have  said  it  was  hours — I  began  to  look  round 
and  take  notice.  I  heard  queer  sounds  as  if 
someone  was  groaning  in  pain,  and  saw  the 
shrubs  and  grass  plain  by  the  light  of  two  lan- 

296 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

terns  standing  on  the  ground.  Near  these  was 
a  man,  lit  up  as  far  as  his  knees,  and  close  by 
him,  all  crumpled  on  the  earth,  another  per- 
son. The  lanterns  threw  a  bright  glow  over 
the  upper  part  of  that  figure,  and  I  saw  the 
head  and  shoulders,  the  hair  with  leaves  and 
twigs  in  it  and  round  the  neck  a  red  bandanna. 
Then  I  made  out  it  was  a  man  and  that  it  was 
from  him  the  sounds  were  coming — moans  and 
groans  and  words  in  a  strange  language. 

"What  is  it?"  I  whispered  to  Babbitts. 
"What's  happened?" 

And  he  whispered  back: 

'Til  tell  you  later.  You're  all  right— that's 
all  that  matters  now." 

It  was  like  a  dream  and  I  can  only  tell  it 
that  way — me  noticing  things  in  little  broken 
bits,  as  if  I  was  at  the  "movies"  and  kept  fall- 
ing to  sleep,  and  then  woke  up  and  saw  a  new 
picture.  The  man  who  was  standing  turned 
round  and  it  was  Hines.  He  looked  across 
the  road  and  gave  a  shout  and  others  answered 
it,  and  lights  danced  up  and  down,  coming 

297 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

closer  through  the  dark.  Then  men  came  run- 
ning— Farmer  Cresset  and  his  sons — and  be- 
hind them  Mrs.  Hines,  with  her  clothes  held 
up  high  and  her  thin  legs  like  a  stork's.  I 
could  hear  them  breathing  as  they  raced  up 
and  one  man's  voice  crying: 

"It's  all  right,  is  it?  There  ain't  been  no 
harm  done?" 

After  that  the  men  were  in  a  group  talking 
low,  the  lanterns  in  their  hands  sending  cir- 
cles and  squares  of  light  over  the  bushes  and 
the  grass.  Presently  Farmer  Cresset  broke 
away  and  went  to  the  figure  on  the  ground. 
He  tried  to  pull  him  up,  but  the  man  squirmed 
out  of  his  hand  and  fell  back  like  a  meal  sack, 
his  face  to  the  earth,  the  moans  coming  from 
him  loud  and  awful. 

After  a  while  they  put  me  on  something 
long  and  hard  with  a  bundle  under  my  head 
and  took  me  away  up  the  road  and  through 
the  woods.  It  was  dark  and  no  one  said  any- 
thing, the  Cresset  boys  carrying  what  I  was 
on  and  Babbitts  walking  alongside.  As  we 

298 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

started  I  heard  someone  say  the  Farmer 
would  stay  with  Hines  and  "communicate 
with  the  authorities."  And  then  we  went 
swinging  off  under  the  trees,  the  footsteps  of 
the  men  squashing  in  the  mud.  Soon  there 
were  lights  twinkling  through  the  branches, 
and  just  as  I  saw  them  and  heard  a  dog  bark, 
and  a  woman  call  out,  my  heart  faded  away 
again  and  that  blackness  swept  over  me. 

I  didn't  know  till  afterwards  how  long  I 
was  sick — weeks  it  was — lying  in  Mrs.  Cres- 
set's spare  room  with  that  blessed  woman  car- 
ing for  me  like  her  own  daughter.  No  people 
in  this  world  were  ever  better  to  another  than 
that  family  was  to  me.  And  others  were 
good — it  takes  sickness  and  trouble  to  make 
you  value  human  nature — for  when  I  got  des- 
perate bad  Dr.  Fowler  came  over  and  took  a 
hand.  Mrs.  Cresset  herself  told  me  that  re- 
specting Dr.  Graham  as  she  did,  she  thought 
I'd  never  have  come  through  if  Dr.  Fowler 
hadn't  given  himself  right  up  to  it,  staying 
in  the  house  for  two  days  the  time  I  was  worst. 

299 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

And  not  a  cent  would  he  ever  take  for  it,  only 
a  pair  of  bed  slippers  I  knitted  for  him  while 
I  was  getting  better. 

It  was  not  till  I  was  well  along  on  the  up- 
grade that  I  heard  what  happened  on  that 
gruesome  night.  I  was  still  in  bed,  sitting  up 
in  a  pink  flannel  jacket  that  Anne  Hennessey 
gave  me,  with  the  sunlight  streaming  in 
through  the  windows  and  a  bunch  of  violets 
scenting  up  the  room.  Babbitts  had  brought 
them  and  it  was  he  that  told  me,  sitting  in  a 
rocker  by  the  bedside  and  speaking  very  quiet 
and  gentle  so  as  not  to  give  me  any  shock. 
For  without  my  knowledge,  just  like  an  in- 
strument of  fate,  it  was  I  that  had  solved  the 
Hesketh  mystery. 

Neither  man  nor  woman  had  killed  Sylvia 
Hesketh.  The  murderer  was  the  dancing 
bear. 

The  man  they  found  on  the  ground  beside 
me  that  night  was  its  owner,  Tito  Malti,  the 
dago  I  had  seen  nearly  three  months  before 
making  the  bear  dance  at  Longwood,  and  the 

300 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

man  Babbitts  and  I  had  seen  that  afternoon 
on  the  hill.  Hines  and  Farmer  Cresset  car- 
ried him — he  was  unable  to  walk  at  first — to 
the  Wayside  Arbor  and  in  the  bar  there  he 
told  them  his  story. 

He  had  been  associated  with  the  acrobats 
for  several  years,  working  over  the  country 
with  them  during  the  summer  and  lying  up  in 
small  towns  for  the  winter.  That  spring,  when 
the  company  went  out  on  their  tour,  he  had 
noticed  that  his  bear  (he  called  it  Bruno  and 
spoke  of  it  like  a  human)  showed  signs  of  bad 
temper.  It  was  a  big  strong  beast,  but  was 
getting  old  and  a  viciousness  that  it  had  al- 
ways had  was  growing  on  it.  He  kept  quiet 
about  it  as  he  hoped  to  get  through  the  season 
without  trouble  and  knew,  if  the  company 
thought  it  was  dangerous,  they  wouldn't 
stand  for  having  it  around.  All  the  summer 
he  wandered  with  them,  guarding  the  bear 
carefully,  never  leaving  it  unmuzzled,  and 
sleeping  beside  it  at  night. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  season  it  began  to 
301 


grow  worse.  It  had  tried  to  attack  one  of  the 
acrobats  and  there  had  been  a  quarrel.  He 
saw  he'd  have  to  part  from  them,  but  they 
patched  up  the  fight  and  he  stayed  on  for  their 
last  performance  at  Longwood,  where  the 
business  was  always  good. 

After  that  they  separated,  the  company  go- 
ing into  winter  quarters  at  Bloomington  and 
Malti  telling  them  he  would  take  Bruno  across 
country  and  make  a  little  extra  money  at  the 
farms  and  villages.  He  did  intend  to  do  this 
but  he  really  wanted  to  get  off  by  himself, 
watch  the  animal,  and  try  and  gain  his  old 
control  over  it. 

He  started,  working  round  by  the  turnpike, 
letting  Bruno  perform  when  he  seemed  good 
tempered,  but  a  good  part  of  the  time  being 
afraid  to.  In  this  way  he  made  enough  money 
to  keep  himself,  sleeping  when  the  nights 
were  bad,  in  barns  and  on  the  lee  side  of  hay- 
ricks, the  bear  chained  to  him. 

On  the  night  of  the  murder  he  had  got 
round  as  far  as  the  Wayside  Arbor.  His  in- 

302 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

tention  had  been  to  take  his  supper  there — he 
knew  the  place  well — and  have  the  bear  dance 
for  the  Italian  customers.  But  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  Arbor  he  didn't  dare.  For  some 
days  Bruno  had  been  sullen  and  savage — that 
afternoon  Malti  had  had  to  beat  him  with  the 
iron-spiked  staff  he  always  carried.  The  poor 
man  said  he  was  half  crazy  with  fright  and 
misery.  He  told  Hines  and  Cresset,  who  said 
he  was  as  simple  as  a  young  child,  that  what 
between  his  fear  of  getting  into  trouble  with 
the  authorities  and  his  fear  of  losing  the  bear 
which  was  all  he  had  in  the  world,  he  was  dis- 
tracted. 

In  the  afternoon  he  had  begged  some  food 
at  a  farm  and  with  this  in  his  pocket  he  tracked 
across  the  fields  and  woods  to  the  turnpike 
near  the  Firehill  Road.  Here — it  being  a 
lonely  spot — he  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  the 
trees  that  hid  him  from  the  highway  and  ate 
his  supper.  As  he  had  been  on  the  tramp  for 
days  he  was  dropping  with  fatigue  and,  seeing 
the  bear  seemed  quiet,  he  stretched  out  and 

303 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

with  the  chain  in  his  hand,  had  fallen  asleep. 

He  was  wakened  by  a  scream — the  most  aw- 
ful he  had  ever  heard.  Half  asleep  as  he  was, 
he  leaped  to  his  feet,  feeling  in  the  dark  for 
the  chain.  It  was  gone  and  the  bear  with  it. 

The  scream  had  come  from  the  other  side  of 
the,  trees.  With  his  staff  in  his  hand  he  burst 
through  them  and  in  the  darkness  saw  dimly 
the  shape  of  that  fearful,  great  beast  reared 
upon  its  hind  legs,  with  a  black  thing  lying  at 
its  feet.  He  yelled  and  struck  it  in  the  face  with 
the  staff  and  it  dropped  down  to  all  fours, 
growling  and  terrible,  but  as  if  the  sound  of 
his  voice  and  the  blows  had  cowed  it.  Then  he 
grabbed  for  the  chain,  moving  along  the 
ground  like  a  snake,  and  holding  it,  knelt  and 
looked  at  the  black  thing — the  thing  the  scream 
had  come  from. 

He  raised  it  and  saw  the  faint  white  of  the 
face  and  hands  and  felt  by  the  clothes  it  was  a 
woman.  He  knew  the  way  an  enraged  bear 
attacks — rising  up  to  its  hind  legs  and  giving 
a  blow  with  its  paw,  a  blow  that  if  the  body 

304 


THE    GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

it  strikes  is  unprotected,  can  break  bones  and 
tear  muscles  out  of  their  place.  In  the  dark 
he  felt  the  woman  till  his  hand  came  on  the 
trickle  of  blood  on  her  face.  That  told  him 
the  brute  had  struck  at  her  head,  and  sick  and 
trembling,  he  lit  a  match  and  held  it  low  over 
her.  The  hat  had  protected  her  from  the 
claws ;  without  it  they  would  have  torn  through 
the  scalp  like  the  teeth  of  a  rake.  But  when 
he  saw  her  face  and  felt  of  her  pulse,  he  knew 
that  that  savage  blow  had  broken  her  skull 
and  she  was  dead. 

At  first  he  was  too  paralyzed  to  think,  kneel- 
ing there  beside  her  with  the  bear  crouched  at 
the  end  of  his  chain,  not  stirring  as  if  it  was 
scared  at  what  it  had  done.  Then  the  horn 
of  the  Doctor's  auto  woke  him  and,  clutching 
the  body,  he  drew  back  into  the  shadow.  The 
car  passed  at  furious  speed,  its  noise  drowning 
any  sound  that  that  strange  and  awful  group 
might  have  made.  Shaking  in  every  limb  he 
laid  his  burden  on  the  grass  and  tried  to  com- 
pose it,  putting  back  the  hat  which  was  torn 

305 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

off,  but  was  caught  to  the  hair  by  its  long 
pin. 

While  he  was  doing  this  the  clouds  broke 
and  he  was  drawing  the  coat  about  her  when 
the  moon  came  out  bright  as  day.  By  its  light 
he  saw  the  pearl  necklace  and  in  his  own  words, 
"All  the  badness  in  his  heart  came  up  into  his 
head." 

When  he  told  that  part  of  his  story  he 
wrung  his  hands  and  sobbed,  declaring  over 
and  over  that  he  was  an  honest  man  and  a  good 
Catholic.  Never  before  had  he  stolen,  though 
often  he  had  gone  cold  and  hungry.  But  he 
knew  now  that  he  must  kill  the  bear,  and  then 
he  would  be  left  an  old  man  without  a  penny 
or  any  way  to  earn  one.  "And  the  pearls,"  he 
moaned  out,  "what  are  they  to  the  dead?  And 
to  me,  who  must  live,  they  mean  riches  for- 
ever." 

He  said  his  hands  shook  so  he  couldn't  find 
the  clasp  and  to  get  at  it  he  pulled  open  the 
coat.  And  then  he  gave  a  cry  and  drew  back 
like  he  was  burnt,  for  there  on  the  breast  of 

306 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

the  dead  woman,  sparkling  like  a  thing  of  fire, 
was  the  cross. 

Babbitts  said  the  two  men  were  greatly  im- 
pressed by  the  way  he  acted  when  he  told  this. 
The  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  face  and  he 
crossed  himself,  bowing  his  head  and  shudder- 
ing. "It  was  God's  voice,"  he  whispered.  "It 
said:  'Stop,  Tito;  hold  your  hand.  No  man 
can  rob  the  dead.' ' 

So  he  closed  the  coat,  folded  the  arms  across 
the  chest  and  covered  all  with  branches  he 
found  in  a  pile  near  by.  As  he  moved  about 
the  bear  watched  him,  not  stirring,  as  if  it 
knew  it  was  guilty  and  was  waiting  to  see 
what  he  would  do  to  it. 

When  the  work  was  finished  the  two  of  them 
stole  away,  as  noiseless  as  shadows.  His  head 
was  clear  enough  to  think  of  the  footprints 
and  he  kept  on  the  grass  till  he  was  near  the 
Firehill  Road.  He  was  approaching  this  when 
he  heard  Reddy's  horn,  and  with  the  bear  fol- 
lowing, he  slipped  through  a  break  in  the  trees 
into  the  open  space  beyond.  Here,  huddled 

307 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

into  the  blackness  under  the  boughs,  he  saw 
the  car  swing  past.  It  went  a  little  way  down 
the  road  and  then  stopped  and  stood  for  what 
seemed  to  him  a  long  time,  every  now  and  then 
the  horn  sounding.  When  it  finally  started 
again  he  moved  on,  the  bear  padding  silently 
beside  him.  He  said  the  car  came  back  soon 
and  passed  and  repassed  him  a  number  of 
times.  Each  time  he  was  ready  for  it,  the 
noise  and  the  lamps  warning  him  of  its  ap- 
proach. Crowded  up  against  the  bear,  he 
watched  it  through  the  branches,  all  the  road 
bright  in  front  of  it  where  the  lamps  threw 
their  two  long  shoots  of  light. 

When  they  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  afraid  of 
the  bear  making  some  sound  he  shook  his  head 
and  said  just  like  a  child: 

"Bruno?    No — he  is  wise  like  a  man.  When 

I  look  him  in  the  eye  I  see  he  knows  he  is  a 

»  • 

murderer  and  must  die,  and  it  makes  him  very 
quiet." 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  kill  Bruno. 
As  he  told  the  men  about  it  the  tears  ran  down 

308 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

his  face,  for  he  said  the  bear  was  like  his 
brother.  When  Reddy  had  gone,  he  made 
off,  Bruno  walking  at  the  end  of  the  chain 
behind  him,  both  keeping  to  the  grass  edges 
of  the  fields.  All  night  they  walked,  those  two 
—and  strange  they  must  have  looked  slipping 
across  the  moonlit  spaces,  two  black  shadows 
moving  over  the  lonesomeness,  not  a  sound 
from  either  of  them,  one  leading  the  other  to 
his  execution. 

At  dawn  they  entered  the  woods.  There, 
when  the  light  was  clear  enough  to  see,  that 
poor,  scared  dago  killed  the  bear  with  the 
knife  he  had  carried  all  summer.  The  rest  of 
the  day  he  spent  scooping  a  grave  for  him. 
When  he  told  how  he  dragged  the  great  body 
into  the  hole  and  covered  it  with  earth,  he  put 
his  hands  over  his  face,  rocking  back  and 
forth,  and  crying  like  a  baby. 

After  that  he  went  to  Bloomington  and 
joined  the  acrobats,  telling  them  the  bear  had 
died.  They  thought  no  more  about  it  and  wel- 
comed him  back,  sharing  their  quarters  \\\(}\ 

309 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

him  and  promising  him  a  place  with  them  in 
the  summer. 

But  his  knowledge  of  the  crime  haunted 
him.  Like  all  those  dagoes,  he  was  supersti- 
tious and  full  of  queer  notions.  Babbitts  said 
he  was  as  ignorant  as  the  animal  he  was  so 
fond  of,  seeming  to  think  as  they  couldn't 
hang  the  bear  they  might  hang  him  in  its  place. 
He  wanted  to  go  to  the  priest  and  confess,  but 
when  he  heard  people  talking  of  the  murder 
he  was  afraid.  After  a  while  he  couldn't  eat 
or  sleep  and  the  torment  of  his  terror  and  re- 
morse was  like  to  drive  him  crazy. 

Finally  he  couldn't  stand  it  any  more  and 
got  the  idea  that  if  he  could  go  back  to  the 
place  and  offer  up  prayers  there  he  might  get 
some  relief.  He  told  the  acrobats  he  was  go- 
ing to  hunt  for  work  on  a  farm,  left  Bloom- 
ington  and  once  again  walked  across  the  coiin- 
try. 

It  was  night  when  he  reached  the  region  he 
was  bound  for,  and  feeling  too  weak  and  sick 
to  go  straight  to  the  spot,  he  went  to  the  Way- 

310 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

side  Arbor  to  beg  for  food  which  would  give 
him  strength  to  bear  the  task  he  had  set  him- 
self. They  gave  him  what  he  asked  for  and 
he  took  it  to  his  old  nook  under  the  trees  and 
there  in  the  cold  and  dark  ate  ravenously. 
Then,  just  as  on  that  other  night,  he  lay  down 
and  the  sleep  that  had  left  him  for  so  long 
Came  back  to  him. 

He  never  heard  us  pass,  but  I  guess  without 
his  knowing  it  we  wakened  him,  for  he  said  he 
was  sitting  up,  rubbing  his  eyes,  when  he  heard 
Babbitts'  footsteps  as  he  ran  back  to  the  inn. 

He  listened  and,  making  sure  no  one  else 
was  on  the  road,  got  up  and  began  to  steal 
cautiously  forward.  He  felt  sure  that  God 
would  hear  his  prayers  after  he  had  walked  so 
far  and  his  misery  had  been  so  great. 

I  guess  the  poor  thing  was  about  all  in,  and 
was  as  scared  when  he  came  near  the  place  as 
I  was.  Of  course  he  had  no  idea  I  was  in 
front  of  him  and  wasn't  following  me  as  I 
thought.  With  the  trees  between,  both  of  us 
were  making  for  the  same  spot,  the  only  dif- 

811 


THE   GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

f  erence  being  that  while  I  heard  him  he  never 
heard  me. 

What  he  saw  when  he  broke  through  the 
hedge  would  have  terrified  anyone,  let  alone 
a  man  in  the  state  he  was.  For  there,  just  as 
he  had  last  seen  her,  lay  a  woman  in  a  black 
coat  with  the  moonlight  shining  on  her  dead 
white  face — a  ghost  waiting  to  accuse  him. 

They  say  the  shriek  he  gave  was  the  most 
awful  that  man  ever  heard.  Babbitts,  who  was 
on  his  way  back,  said  it  sounded  like  it  came 
from  a  lost  soul  in  Hell.  He  tried  to  yell 
back,  but  couldn't  and  ran  like  a  madman,  and 
when  he  got  there  saw  me  lying  as  if  I  was 
dead  in  the  moonlight  and  a  wild,  screaming 
figure  crouched  on  the  ground  beside  me.  The 
two  Hines  heard  it.  Hines  picked  up  a  lan- 
tern and  ran  with  Mrs.  Hines  at  his  heels. 
When  he  came  up  he  found  Babbitts  kneeling 
over  me,  half  crazy,  thinking  I  was  murdered, 
too.  They  felt  my  pulse  and  found  it  was  go- 
ing and  sent  Mrs.  Hines  on  the  run  to  Cres- 
set's. She  lit  out,  calling  and  crying  as  she 

812 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

flew  through  the  woods,  and  met  the  Cresset 
crowd,  hiking  along  with  their  lanterns,  hav- 
ing heard  her  and  not  knowing  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

Well — that's  the  end  of  my  story.  Oh,  I 
forgot  the  reward — I  got  it.  I  oughtn't  to 
have  for  I  didn't  do  anything  but  fall  in  a 
faint,  which  was  the  easiest  thing  I  could  do. 
But  Mrs.  Fowler  and  the  Doctor  wouldn't 
have  it  any  other  way,  so  I  gave  in.  Not  that 
I  didn't  want  to.  Believe  me,  Jew  or  Gentile 
gets  weak  when  ten  thousand  dollars  is  pressed 
into  her  palm.  It's  invested  and  I  get  good 
interest  on  it,  but  I'm  saving  that  up.  You 
never  can  tell  what  may  happen  in  this  world. 

As  to  the  rest  of  us — the  bunch  that  in  one 
way  or  another  were  drawn  into  the  Hesketh 
mystery — we're  all  scattered  now. 

Jack  Reddy's  not  living  at  Firehill  any 
more.  He's  taken  an  apartment  in  town 
where  the  two  old  Gilseys  look  after  him  like 
he  was  their  only  son,  and  he's  studying  law 
in  Mr.  Whitney's  office.  Sometimes  Sunday 

313 


THE   GIRL   AT   CENTRAL 

he  comes  to  see  us,  just  as  cordial  and  kind 
and  handsome  as  ever,  and  it's  I  that'll  be  glad 
when  he  tells  me  he's  found  the  right  girl — 
God  bless  him! 

Cokesbury  Lodge  is  sold  and  Cokesbury's 
living  in  town,  too.  They  say  his  part  in  the 
Hesketh  case  sort  of  finished  him.  High  so- 
ciety wouldn't  stand  for  it,  which  shows  you 
can't  believe  all  you  hear  about  the  idle  rich. 
I've  heard  that  he's  seen  round  a  lot  with  an 
actress-lady  and  one  of  the  papers  had  it  he 
was  going  to  marry  her. 

The  Fowlers  went  to  Europe.  They're  liv- 
ing in  Paris  now  and  I  hear  from  Anne  Hen- 
nessey, who  corresponds  with  Mrs.  Fowler, 
that  they're  going  to  reside  there.  Anyway, 
Jim  Donahue  told  me  last  time  I  was  down 
at  Longwood  that  Mapleshade  was  to  let. 

Annie's  got  a  new  job  in  town,  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  grand  people  who  never  quarrel.  She 
dines  with  us  most  every  Sunday  and  we  sit 
till  all  hours  talking  over  the  past,  like  people 
who've  been  in  some  great  disaster  and  when 

814 


THE    GIRL   AT    CENTRAL 

they  get  together  always  drift  back  to  the 
subject. 

Me? — you  want  to  know  about  me? 

Well,  I'm  living  uptown  on  the  West  Side 
in  the  cutest  little  flat  in  New  York — five 
rooms,  on  a  corner,  all  bright  and  sunny.  And 
furnished!  Say,  I  wish  I  could  show  them 
to  you.  When  Mrs.  Fowler  broke  up  she 
gave  me  a  lot  of  the  swellest  things.  Why, 
I've  got  a  tapestry  in  the  parlor  that  cost  five 
hundred  dollars  and  cut  glass  you  couldn't 
beat  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

It's  on  125th  Street,  near  the  Subway.  We 
had  to  be  near  that  for  Himself — he  likes  to 
stay  as  late  as  he  can  in  the  morning  and  get 
up  as  quick  as  he  can  at  night.  If  you're 
passing  that  way  any  time,  just  drop  in.  I'd 
love  to  see  you  and  have  you  see  my  place — 
and  me,  too.  You'll  see  the  name  on  the  let- 
ter-box— Morganthau?  Oh,  quit  your  kid- 
ding— it's  Babbitts  now. 

(2) 
THE  END 


I 


A     000115574     6 


